Hold Me Close

contigo

The stadium is quiet, but it is almost full.

Every word on the pitch can be heard, from both sides, but the sounds feel like they are muted when they reach my ears. I am too focused on dispossessing Spain to notice. Our high press is concentrated and, so far, working.

Aitana marks me closely, never letting me go more than a metre without her running beside me. Our attack seems to solely be down to Lineth, and our defence lets us down when a cross from the left wing sails into our own box, Alba Redondo's head pushing it across the face of the goal once more. The ball falls to Spanish feet, but she's definitely too close as she jabs it in the back of the net.

I hold my breath, anticipating the offside call but unsure whether we will be lucky enough for the referees to actually do their jobs.

Sweating from trying to lose Aitana, I wipe my face with the bottom of my jersey, ready to go again. But that doesn't come.

We go into half-time goalless, though the red shirts on the pitch have clearly been trying harder than we have.

Andries has words to say, but they don't compute. I sit in my cubby feeling a little lost, not sure why the match is affecting me so much. So far, my touches – of which, there have been very little – have been slightly off. Distracted.

I take in a few shaky breaths as we walk back out of the tunnel, my hand brushing against a Spanish sub's (a certain, specific one that I had made sure to walk next to). The touch seems to calm me for a moment. I am already hating the second half more than the first.

Almost immediately, there's a chance for the other team as they prod a header forwards. The same Madrid player curls the ball towards the goal. She misses, but only marginally.

I mistime a tackle, barely avoiding a second yellow card. I'd be joining Daan on the subs bench for the next match if I hadn't been so lucky.

I start to get more frustrated with my team. Our attack is minimal.

Lynn comes on for Jill just after the hour mark, and the fresh legs seem to energise us. We are on the attack as I dribble through the midfield, sending a through ball to Lineth. Cata comes out to clear the ball, but Irene makes a rash decision, bodying Lineth off the ball. As Lineth bundles down, the whistle screeches from the referee's lips. She points to the penalty spot, the crowd cheering as she does. There's another cheer as Irene is shown a yellow card.

Andries catches my eye, nodding. I'm going to take this penalty. I jog down to the spot, ready to score.

Or not.

VAR overturns the ref's decisions – both of them. I shout in protest, though I have to be careful about my discipline today. Lineth claps me on the shoulder, muttering in my ear that they must be watching a different game up in the VAR room. My agreement is clear, because Aitana tells me, as we both adjust our positioning, that I have a very expressive face.

I try to get into it in the midfield, but I am too often surrounded by red shirts for any attacking play to actually come from it.

Talia gets subbed on, along with a Real Madrid player. She looks on edge, with dark bags under her eyes and a weary expression on her face as she jogs onto the pitch, switching places with Alba Redondo. We haven't spoken much. Something has been going on with her.

The worst happens next. Stephanie's arm forgets the rules of the game.

It's a handball and a penalty to Spain. This time, with no protest from the VAR.

I watch as Mariona sets up to take it, trying not to lose myself as my head begins to swirl. Vision blurred by momentary tears, I mildly register her stuttering run-up, and how she sends Daphne the wrong way. The Spanish celebrations are like a hot poker branding into my stomach. I wince, returning to my position so that we can kick off.