𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨

Chapter 23 - World cup

12th August 2023
Chloé pov - present
The stadium is electric, a sea of blue and red, French flags flapping under the Australian sun. The chants echo around me, fueling the pulse of the match. We're halfway through the World Cup group stage, and today, France faces Panama. I’m Chloé Laurent, striker for Les Bleues. The air is heavy with expectation, and every muscle in my body hums with readiness. This is what I’ve dreamed about for years. We kick off strong, but Panama, bless them. Comes out swinging. No fear. They come at us hard, taking advantage of a brief moment of disorganization in our backline. I can hardly believe it when I hear the roar of the crowd that isn’t for us. It’s for them. Panama’s forward curls the ball into the back of the net, just out of our goalkeeper’s reach. It’s 1-0, Panama.“Allez!” I shout at my teammates. We’ve been here before. Down early but never down long. We regroup and, with a steely focus, start dictating the rhythm of the game. The ball moves between us like a metronome. Controlled, precise, deadly.

Barely ten minutes later, we draw level. Our midfield general sends a perfectly weighted ball over the top, and I know instantly it’s mine. I burst past the last defender, and with one touch, I’m through on goal. I take a deep breath and slot the ball calmly into the bottom corner. The stadium erupts, blue flares lighting up the French section. I turn toward the stands and lift my hands to the sky, a small prayer of thanks. My heart swells as I remember my promise. I point to the stands, searching for them. Mapi. My fiancée. sits in the front row, holding Sofía and Mateo close, waving at me with wide grins. I tap my chest, where my heart beats fast beneath the French crest. “For you,” I whisper. “For you all.” We settle into our rhythm after that. The first goal is like a dam breaking, and our confidence floods the field. Our midfield becomes a battlefield that we refuse to lose, and Panama struggles to hold us back. The goals just rally through.

1-2

1-3

1-4

1-5

2-5

3-5

3-6

The full time whistle blows and all I can do is drop to my knees. We won. But we had to work and keep our heads down or who knows what the score would have been. It wasn't easy. But that doesn't matter. We won. That's all that matters.

12th August 2023
The air is thick with tension as I stand on the pitch, staring at the ball sitting twelve yards in front of me. The silence in the stadium is deafening now. Thousands of faces, their emotions muted behind a veil of expectation, blur together in my vision. My heart is pounding, my breathing too shallow. The weight of the moment presses down on me like an anchor tied to my chest, and suddenly the world feels far too small. I’m Chloé Laurent. I’ve been here before, haven’t I? These moments of life and death in football, where the stakes feel greater than they should, where a game feels more like a reckoning. I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this. I’ve scored from this distance more times than I can count. Through drills, through exhaustion, through pressure. But this? This is different. This is the quarter-final of the World Cup, and France is on the edge of something great. It’s the final penalty. And it’s mine. One kick to send us through, to put us one step closer to glory.

I take a deep breath, feeling the sweat beading down my face despite the cool night air. My heart races, and my hands feel clammy as I adjust my grip on the sides of my shorts, wiping my palms against the fabric. It’s like time has slowed, the world around me fading into a blur of colors and sounds. All I can hear is my own heartbeat echoing in my ears, thumping like a drum. I’ve never felt pressure like this, not even in the biggest club games. I glance up at the goalkeeper. Mackenzie Arnold, Australia’s fearless number one. She stands tall, arms spread wide, trying to psych me out. Her eyes are fierce, locked on mine. She knows. She knows how much this means. But she also knows how much it means to her, to Australia, to everyone watching. One of us will break. One of us will crack under this moment.

I close my eyes for a split second, searching for calm. In that brief darkness, I think of Mapi, of our twins, of the life we’ve built together outside of this game. I think of how none of this will matter to them. To them, I’m still Chloé. Mama. Fiance. But here, I’m something else. I’m a weapon, a hope, the embodiment of a nation’s dreams. The pressure of that thought brings a tightness to my chest. The referee’s whistle pierces the air, dragging me back into the present. I can feel the eyes of the world on me. This is it. One kick. I begin my run-up. One step, then two. My mind goes blank. My foot connects with the ball, and I feel it leave my foot, flying toward the goal with purpose. For a split second, I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve sent us through. But then, the sound. That sound... Of the ball crashing against the post. Time shatters back into full speed, and the noise of the stadium rushes in like a tidal wave. The ball ricochets off to the side, harmless, without purpose. I freeze, my heart plummeting into my stomach.

I missed. missed.

My knees weaken beneath me as the reality sets in, and I feel like the ground is slipping away. The cheers erupt from the Australian side. They’ve won. I’ve handed it to them, wrapped in a bow of regret. France is out of the World Cup, and it’s because of me. The tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away furiously. No, not here. Not in front of them. My teammates are there almost immediately, hands on my shoulders, pulling me close. They murmur words of encouragement. Words that should comfort me, but they can’t. Not now. All I hear is the echo of the ball hitting the post. I feel like I’m suffocating, the crowd closing in around me, the weight of their disappointment like a physical thing. But I don’t show it. I can’t. I have to stay strong for them. I owe them that much, even if I couldn’t deliver the win.

*** ***

The Airbnb is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels unnatural, that feels like it’s masking something beneath it. We’ve just put the twins to bed, their soft breathing is the only sound I can hear now. I close the door to their room as softly as I can, leaning against it for a moment, letting my forehead rest against the cool wood. Mapi is in the small living room, curled up on the sofa with a book she isn’t really reading. She glances up at me when I walk in, her dark eyes searching through mine for something. Reassurance maybe, or an answer to why things happen the way they do. But I have nothing to give her. I feel empty, hollowed out by the weight of the day. She sets the book down and pats the spot beside her. I cross the room and sit down, my legs pulling up beneath me as I lean against her. Mapi wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, her warmth comforting but not quite enough to chase away the darkness lingering inside me.

“I saw the press conference,” she says quietly. Her voice is soft, almost hesitant. She doesn’t want to push, but she knows me too well. She knows I need to talk, even if I don’t want to. I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet. I feel her hand stroke through my hair, the gentle, familiar motion grounding me in the moment. But I can’t stop thinking about it. The missed penalty, the weight of that failure. I try to push it down, try to push it away, but it clings to me like a shadow. “It’s not your fault,” Mapi whispers, her voice soothing like the sea at dawn. “You know that, right?” But I shake my head. “It is, though,” I say, my voice small, barely more than a whisper. “I was the only one who missed. I could’ve sent us through. I could’ve—”
“You could’ve done a hundred things,” Mapi interrupts gently. “But you’re not a machine, Chloé. You’re human. You’ve done more for that team than anyone. One moment doesn’t change that.” I want to believe her. I want to tell myself that one kick doesn’t define me, but I can’t shake the feeling that it does. That it always will. My mind keeps replaying it over and over.

How close it was, how the ball veered just inches from where it needed to be. “I let them down,” I mutter, staring at the floor, my hands twisting together in my lap. “I let everyone down.” Mapi shifts beside me, her hand slipping beneath my chin and lifting my head so I have to meet her gaze. Her eyes are fierce now, brimming with determination. “No, you didn’t. You hear me? You did everything you could. You’ve fought with them, bled with them, given your all for France. One missed penalty doesn’t erase that.” I close my eyes, her words sinking into me slowly, like rain on dry earth. I don’t know if I can believe her. Not yet. But I know she’s trying to help. I lean into her again, the exhaustion of the day catching up with me. She kisses the top of my head, and for a moment, the world feels a little lighter, a little less suffocating. “I love you,” she whispers against my hair, and I smile despite everything.  “I love you too.” Tomorrow will come, with its fresh challenges and memories of today’s failure, but for now, I’m here with Mapi. With our family. And that, at least, is something I can hold on to.

Word count: 1729