𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨

Chapter 18 - Euros (Pt 2.)

20th July 2022
Mapi pov - present
The roar of the crowd is deafening, a wave of noise crashing down from every direction. The stadium is packed, its stands a sea of red and white. We're in Brighton, but it might as well be anywhere. When you're on the pitch, it's just you, your teammates, and the game. England versus Spain. Quarterfinals of the EURO 2022. This is what we play for. I stand tall at the back, my breath steady, but my heart hammering beneath my jersey. Everything we've worked for, everything we've trained for, comes down to nights like this. The ball's about to be kicked off, and I lock eyes with Laia just ahead of me. We nod, a silent promise exchanged. We've got each other's backs tonight.

From the first whistle, it's fast, almost too fast. England presses hard, relentless in their attacks. Ellen White and Beth Mead are like wolves, circling, waiting for any mistake. But we don't break, not yet. I'm there, a wall of blue and red, reading the play, cutting out the crosses, winning the duels in the air. I can hear the Spanish fans chanting, feel the vibrations of their hopes running through the ground beneath my feet. We defend, not just with our legs but with our hearts. We're patient, biding our time, absorbing the pressure, waiting for our moment. And then, it comes. The ball is won high up the field, passed quickly between our midfielders. Esther González finds space, her timing perfect, and suddenly, she's on the ball with a clean look at goal.

"Esther, go!" I shout, my voice hoarse with anticipation. She doesn't need telling twice. She drills it low and hard into the net. For a second, time stops. The world narrows to just that single moment-the ball hitting the back of the net, the eruption of joy from our bench, and the disbelief in the eyes of the English players. 1-0, Spain. The minutes tick by after our goal, each one harder than the last. England piles on the pressure. Their home crowd urges them forward, and I feel it in every touch, every tackle. We fight. Every player on our team is giving everything, bodies thrown in front of the ball, legs burning, minds racing to stay one step ahead. I can't let them in; I won't.

But football is cruel. In the 84th minute, the ball slips away from us for just a second-just a second too long. Alessia Russo gets a flick to it, sending it into the box where Ella Toone arrives, unmarked. I see it too late. I lunge, but my boot barely grazes the ball as it flies past me and into the net. I stand there for a moment, staring at it. 1-1. My stomach churns, and I want to scream, but there's no time. We're back in the thick of it, battling for our lives again. Extra time looms. My legs are heavy, but I push them to keep moving. England's energy hasn't waned, and we're chasing the game now. And then it happens-the moment that I'll replay in my head a thousand times after tonight. Georgia Stanway picks up the ball in midfield and starts to drive forward. I see her, I'm tracking her, but she unleashes a shot from outside the box. It swerves, faster than I expect, and it's unstoppable. Sandra Paños dives, but it's not enough. The ball slams into the back of our net.

2-1. The noise from the stands is deafening again, but this time it feels like it's closing in on me, like it's suffocating. I run my hands through my hair, trying to keep myself steady. I look at my teammates. Aitana's eyes are filled with fire, but we're exhausted, broken in ways that only football can break you. The final whistle blows. The English players collapse to the ground, celebrating as though they've won the whole tournament. For them, maybe it feels like they have. For us, it's just the beginning of the end. The defeat sinks into my skin, my bones. I let my body fall to the grass, my hands pressed to my face as the tears start to burn behind my eyes. I want to be strong. I know the cameras are everywhere. But the weight of this loss, of all that we've given, is too much.

I rise slowly, my legs trembling. The English players come over. Lucy Bronze, Ellen White. Offering condolences, respect. I try to smile, nodding, but my mind is elsewhere. I glance up into the stands, searching, and then I see her. Chloé. She's standing at the barrier, her face full of love and concern. I walk over, my legs heavy like lead, my chest tight. Chloé's face softens when she sees me, and when I reach her, she doesn't say a word. She just pulls me into her arms, her fingers stroking my hair as I bury my face in her shoulder. I can feel her warmth, her heartbeat, and I let it ground me, pull me away from the harshness of the stadium.

"You were amazing, Mapi," she whispers into my ear, her voice thick with her French accent. "So strong. I'm so proud of you." I shake my head, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. "We lost," I manage to choke out. "We were so close..." Chloé pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, her hands still holding me gently. "It's not about this one game," she says softly, her voice filled with the kind of understanding that only another player can give. "You gave everything. That's what matters." Her words soothe me, even though the pain still lingers, a dull ache in my chest. She kisses my forehead gently, and for a moment, it's just us. No crowd. No cameras. Just her and me. I close my eyes, trying to hold onto this moment of peace. I know the disappointment will be with me for a long time, but with Chloé's arms around me, I feel a little stronger, a little less alone. This is the game. It's brutal, it's beautiful, and no matter what, we'll rise again. "Next time," Chloé whispers, her lips brushing against my cheek. "Next time will be yours." I nod, holding onto that hope, that fire. Because in football, there's always a next time.

Word count: 1072