CHAPTER 33 #2
The home crowd cried penalty as DeShaun was scythed down, but it was ruled to be on the edge of the box. The defender was finally booked.
There was 25 minutes to go of normal time.
DeShaun stepped up to take it, sizing the width of the wall. He made a signal to Martin, who joined the side of it. Half a second before DeShaun struck the ball, Martin took a step away. The ball soared through the gap to goal, curling inwards, only to crash off the outside of the post.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Maybe you should get out there and cheer him on,” said a fan.
I faked a smile. “Someone else is on mascot duty today.”
He made a gesture towards my legs. “I didn't mean in the bear suit.”
Dumbarton rocketed forward, playing as if it was their team who needed a goal. Their left-winger cut inside, crossed the ball into the box and their striker met it with a thumping header which soared an inch over the bar. McQuillan had been beaten.
“Let's go, Broxburgh, let's go!”
DeShaun was dispossessed in the 78th minute, and almost out of breath.
The opposition came forward in numbers. Their striker ran out to the corner flag, followed by Robertson who tried to challenge him.
The striker passed to their winger, who floated the ball into the box again.
McQuillan came out to catch it, spotted DeShaun just inside his own half but beyond the last of Dumbarton's defenders and booted the ball upfield.
DeShaun burst into life, punting the ball 20 yards forward into the away team's half. He couldn't be offside, coming from his own half.
Dumbarton's goalkeeper raced out of his box, seeming to sense how weak our star player had become.
It was a one-on-one sprint for the ball.
DeShaun's legs carried him at a blistering pace, he struck the shot hard and the ball whizzed over the head of a goalkeeper, who couldn't use his hands, then started to dip as it neared the net. Dipping, dipping, dipping and in off the underside of the bar.
Lady Macbeth Park erupted at the aggregate equaliser and sight of one of the most incredible goals of the season.
I was dancing in the stands with the fans.
“He's not good,” said a supporter, pointing.
I watched as DeShaun was helped back to our half for the restart.
Leo Martin swapped positions with him.
The clock soon said 85 minutes gone.
DeShaun's legs may have gone, but his voice was working overtime and he bellowed orders at the team like no player-manager ever before him.
He faded into midfield, as the team played more like 10 against 11.
Dumbarton struck our left post in the 86th minute. Then the right post in the 87th.
My heart was in my mouth.
Leo Martin hit their crossbar in the 89th.
The ref's assistant signalled 4 minutes of injury time.
“Why isn't he subbing himself?” asked a fan.
I had to admit I'd been thinking the same thing, and hoped he'd see sense when we got into extra-time.
Lee Browne sent Johnny Wood and Lachlan Williamson along the touchline to warm-up.
“No offence,” continued the fan, “but anyone's more use on the pitch right now than your man-”
“He's not my man,” I insisted.
The fan looked at me, raising her eyebrows in mock disbelief.
Ricky McQuillan saved a poor drive from outside the box, then decided to dribble with the ball as the clock ticked deeper into injury time.
He battered the ball suddenly instead of passing to the nearest Broxburgh player, sending the ball down our wing only for Dumbarton's full-back to tap it out for a corner.
Crawford and McKay jogged past DeShaun into the box. He nodded to them, walking behind. We'd so many players up for it.
The ball was whipped into the box. Dumbarton's 'keeper got his fingertips to it to push it on, then it was headed out of the area by one of their defenders.
DeShaun turned his back to goal, sprung his feet from the ground, and swung his right foot through the air until it was over his head, striking the ball before he fell to the turf. It rocketed past both sets of players and into the back of the net.
“I guess that's why,” I said matter-of-factly to the fan.
She lifted me off the ground, hugging me. “I don't care! I don't fucking care! He's done it! DeShaun's done it!”
I fixed my skirt as I was set down and listened to 2,500 voices sing out for their king.
4-1 (4-3 on aggregate), and DeShaun's overhead kick had just shown he was a class above everyone else.
The final whistle was blown.
The sound was deafening. The mood had lifted to the most optimistic of the season.
It didn't matter if we were playing East Fife or whoever in the final, what mattered was the players, manager and supporters seemed to finally be united in their belief we'd be in League One next season. And this owner finally believed it too.
I spotted DeShaun having to be helped off, and left my place in the stands.
I walked onto the pitch to be by his side. “DeShaun, it's me,” I said. “Are you okay?”
He patted the back of my hand with his palm. “Just check on McAllister. We need him for the final... I'm fucked.”
“Come back here,” he said.
I strutted into my living room.
He eyed me up and down from the sofa. “Take your clothes off, Sasha.”
I swallowed. “But you have a girlfriend-”
“Just do it.” He adjusted his crotch in his jeans.
“Wait, are you su-”
“Strip.”
I reluctantly pulled my tight top over my head, then reached behind for my bra with more confidence.
“You can leave that on... For now.” He gestured for me to continue.
I unzipped my skirt, then shimmied until it fell to the floor.
“Take off those panties and come stand in front of me.”
“I thought we weren't-”
“Take them off,” he said.
I reached into the waistband and lowered my pink underwear to my ankles, then stood before him in just my bra and stilettos. “You said we couldn't be-”
He took my sex into his mouth, fellating her.
“Together,” I gasped.