The new lad flew down the flank, first touch like he’d just booted a live grenade ahead of him. I got a glimpse at his generic player card as he whoozed forward.

  One and a half stars? At this level, that was basically the reincarnation of prime Gareth Bale showing up to terrorize the Burger King Sunday League. Did he get lost on his way to the Championship?

  Qualley tore down the flank like he’d been waiting the entire warm-up for this exact sprint. Touch tight, rhythmic, hips loose. A proper winger, not like the clumsy lad from the first half.

  Evans got the first look.

  He squared up, skidding a step back on the dry turf. For half a beat I thought he might match Joe Qualley.

  He didn’t.

  The winger chopped the ball inside, then rolled it back out again; two touches quick enough that they blended into a single motion in my fatigued eyes. Evans turned the wrong way and was quickly left in the dust.

  The lad was flying, but he hadn’t built the perfect angle yet. His touches were lightning-fast but just loose enough that I could read the bias each time he tapped forward. The trick now was not to sprint myself into an early grave.

  He got near the edge of our box, and that’s when he made his first real mistake.

  He looked up.

  I cut across his lane, not aiming for the ball but the path. My shoulder brushed his, just enough to tilt his momentum without sending him sprawling. He stumbled a half-step, had to widen his stride, and the ball rolled too far ahead of him.

  Mine.

  I lunged in, sweeping it out toward the right touchline with the inside of my boot, a big clearance angle that let me recover without twisting my knees into jelly. It wasn't pretty, but it did the job.

  “YES, JAMES!” Okafor’s voice bellowed behind me. “That’s the work!”

  My name wasn’t James, but I wasn’t going to correct him now.

  I needed water. Not a sip; a baptism.

  The ball had gone out for a Thatcham throw, so I jogged toward the touchline. Control your breathing, Jamie. Your chest should only rise about twenty percent more violently than you want.

  There was a half-empty bottle by the bench. I scooped it up casually, like I hadn’t been dying inside for the last thirty seconds. Took a slow pull, two seconds tops. No greedy gulps. Greedy gulps exposed weakness. I could feel Mitch watching, so I made sure to wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist like hydration was simply a pleasant hobby of mine.

  Okafor jogged past, glancing at me. “You good?”

  I nodded once. “Peachy.”

  I headed away the next corner, and Palmer got the ball. He dribbled, wrapped his foot around the ball and whipped in a devilish early cross. It skimmed over three heads, bounced off someone’s shoulder, ricocheted off someone else’s shin, and suddenly Dom had a toe on it.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  The ball ping-ponged through enough legs to qualify as a family reunion before trickling over the line.

  Our bench, consisting of Mitch, two subbed out players, and a lad’s missus who clearly hadn’t been informed she’d be watching football today, exploded. Rothschild grabbed the nearest person—might’ve been a Thatcham defender—and shook him like he’d just found the cure to relegation. Not sure why he was so pumped up for a friendly game.

  I just raised a fist anyway.

  I forced myself back into position, with my lungs still trying to climb out of my ribcage. Mansfield jogged past shouting something generic and motivational in my direction; may have been a, “Good work, lad!”, but none of it included the crucial part, which was Jamie, you look like you’re about to shed a hamstring like a lizard tail.

  Good. Tell someone you’re knackered? Absolutely not. I’d rather perish quietly on the grass like a dehydrated Victorian orphan.

  So when their midfielder picked up the ball and shaped his body like he was about to go long to Qualley’s position, I hesitated. I should’ve stuck tight to my marker, but instead I drifted, watching his hips, wondering if I looked knackered from the side angle.

  My guy saw it immediately.

  He peeled off my shoulder like he’d been waiting for that exact microsecond of idiocy. Mansfield slid in at the near post, but he was far too behind the forward. Couldn’t close the lane. With a simple tap-in, the score was 2-1.

  My fault.

  I whipped my head around, bracing for the disgust. For a split second my brain replayed that look from years ago, back on the training pitch, right after the lads found out I’d been match-fixing. That slow, spreading recognition on their faces. The step back. The silence that vacuumed out the air.

  But—

  Nothing.

  The midfielder, Milner, just jogged back, clapping his hands. “Unlucky, boys! Reset!”

  His respect was still the same as last time, even higher, at 60%.

  Okafor pointed two fingers at me. I tensed for the speech.

  He said, “Hey—coach told us you’ve been out for, what, seven years? Take it easy, man. Don’t die on us.”

  Still 77%.

  Even Mitch on the sideline didn’t stare daggers; he just cupped his hands and bellowed, “Drop ten! Rest in shape! Let them have it in front!”

  That was it.

  Not even a passive-aggressive comment.

  The lads didn’t think less of me. It was just . . . a goal. In a friendly.

  It really had all been in my head this whole time, hadn’t it?

  My heart rate: catastrophic, but emotionally?

  Peachy.

  We dropped back into our defensive shape. Okafor tucked inside to cover the central channel, Palmer and Evans hovered wide but tight, and I made sure Mansfield stayed glued to the small forward, anticipating his next dart.

  Their winger—still Joe Qualley—tried one last jink near the byline, I was ready. One clean step, and I intercepted a low pass toward the forward, boot nudging the ball just ahead of the small forward so he couldn’t get a proper touch.

  The forward tried again, desperate, but our compact line didn’t crack. Evans pressured from the inside, Palmer closed the near touchline, and Dawson pinched just enough to deny any width. The ball pinged between them briefly before the Thatcham attack collapsed.

  I clipped one last clearance upfield as the referee’s whistle blew. Full time. 2-1.

  Okafor jogged over, clapping me on the shoulder. “See? You’re still alive, still got legs.”

  Rothschild and Dom exchanged grins, patting each other’s backs. Evans gave a quick thumbs-up. Mansfield didn’t speak, but a small nod from him said enough.

  Match over, clean sheet for our side of the defensive story, and a win in the bag.

  2-1. Victory.

  If you enjoy the story, consider supporting me on and/or joining my so we can talk more about it!