Port Peterson is starting to wear us down in the back.
The new defenders struggle with the rough stuff. Whenever they back off, number 10 sneaks in for a dangerous shot on net. Alex has stopped every one. So far.
One shot could turn the tide of the game. We need to shut down number 10, and we need to score again. So how do I play it? I’m torn.
Danny goes down at the seventy-five-minute mark, his nose gushing blood.
The trainer takes a look. “Pretty sure it’s broken.” He holds a pad against Danny’s nose to soak up the blood.
“I can play, Coach,” says Danny in a muffled voice.
“No, lad. You can’t.”
“But we don’t have any more subs!” he protests as they lead him to the bench. “Don’t take me out, Coach. We can’t play a man short for fifteen minutes!”
That decides it. “Don’t worry, Danny!” I shout. “I got this.” I drop back to shore up our defense.
They keep pounding us. We keep holding them off. But we’re not getting any chances ourselves.
And we’re slowing down. I’m slowing down.
The ball goes out for a corner, and I line up with Alex. “Can’t be much longer.”
“Couple minutes,” he says.
They’re desperate to tie it up. The corner sails in, and Alex leaps up to pick it out of the air. While he’s airborne and unprotected, number 10 elbows him in the head.
Alex hits the ground, and the ball jars loose. He scrambles for it on hands and knees. As he pulls it in, number 10 kicks it out of his hands and into the net. The whistle blows.
Tie game.
Gil shouts, “Aren’t you going to call that, ref?”
Julio hustles him away.
Alex gets up, rubbing his head.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Go!”
I grab the ball and go back to mid. We need that goal. Now. We’ll never make it through thirty minutes of extra time. Not with ten men.
I bring the ball up the left. I’m just past half when number 10 comes at me, studs up. It should’ve been his second yellow, but it’s just a free kick.
Gil trots back. He leans in and whispers, “You and me. Teamwork. Let’s show ’em all.”
I nod. “Deal.”
And that’s how we score the prettiest goal of the game.
I set up the free kick just inside the touchline, making sure the ball sits just right. Gil lines up with the defenders, about thirty yards out.
“Time, ref?”
He shakes his head.
One chance. We’ve got one chance.
I send a long hard ball into the eighteen-yard box.
Come on, Gil.
He times his run perfectly. He fakes out his defender and races for the box.
The keeper sprints off his line. They’re all closing in.
The ball’s coming down, but he’s not quite there.
Come on, Gil. Hit the gas.
He launches himself headfirst at the ball. G.I. Joe to the rescue!
He head-chips it over the keeper, then belly flops onto the turf. The ball sails in, just like van Persie’s Flying Dutchman goal!
Then it’s over. We did it! We won!
Gil’s on his feet already, buzzing around in circles with his arms out like a fighter jet. I run after him, laughing and shouting, “That was brilliant! The craziest thing I ever saw!”
He grins at me and pumps his fist in the air. The team mobs us. Guys are doing chest bumps, backflips and the best collection of bad dance moves since disco died.
I glance at the stands. Mom and Dad are making their way to the field.
Luka hasn’t moved. I feel him glaring at me through his mirrored shades. When he’s sure I’m looking, he aims a finger gun. Bam, bam.
I start to shiver. Alex notices first, then Gil.
I give them a shaky smile. “Tell me you have a kick-ass plan B.”
The celebration carries on around us. Pictures and hugs and applause. Handshakes from the league and the club. Speeches. Alex accepts the big golden trophy and waves us all in to hold it up. Laughter when it nearly falls on our heads. And each time I look, Luka’s still sitting there on his phone.
Watching.
Waiting.