Between the Lines

The bench is no throne

*Alex*

The roar of the crowd hit me the moment we stepped out onto the pitch, the kind of noise that made your blood pump faster and your nerves tingle with anticipation. The stadium was packed, fans waving banners and chanting our names—my name, over and over. Normally, that would've had me grinning, soaking it all in, but not today.

Today, I was pissed.

As the team jogged out onto the field, my heart pounded with frustration, not adrenaline. Coach Brian had benched me. Me. I wasn't in the starting lineup, and the reason was all too clear: I'd shown up late to practice, still shaking off the hangover from the night before. It wasn't the first time, but it seemed Coach had finally had enough. And now, instead of leading the charge, I was stuck on the sidelines like some rookie.

The cheers and chants felt like a slap in the face as I took my place on the bench, trying to ignore the sting of disappointment and anger. I wasn't used to being benched. Hell, I hated it. My whole body was tense, my fists clenched as I watched the rest of the team prepare to kick off. They looked sluggish, hesitant. Without me out there, they lacked the spark we needed to dominate.

Josh sat down next to me, giving me a sympathetic look. "Coach still punishing you, huh?"

"Yeah," I muttered, my voice laced with irritation. "You warned me, I know. I just didn't think he'd actually bench me for it."

He shrugged, eyes on the field. "Coach means business. You know that. You just gotta make him see you're still the best option out there."

"I will," I said through gritted teeth. "The second he puts me in."

The match started, and right away, it was clear we were in trouble. The other team came out strong, pushing us back, controlling the ball like it was their game. Our defense was too slow, our midfield wasn't connecting, and it didn't take long before they found the back of the net. 1-0.

I cursed under my breath. This wouldn't be happening if I were out there. Every second I wasn't playing felt like an eternity, my frustration building with every missed opportunity, every mistake I knew I could've fixed. But all I could do was sit and wait, the crowd's energy starting to feel like pressure weighing down on me.

As the first half dragged on, my gaze wandered to the sidelines, where the reporters were stationed. Among them was a brunette, holding a microphone, her eyes focused on the game. Even from where I was sitting, I could see she was different—there was something about her that caught my attention and held it.

"Who's that?" I nudged Josh, nodding toward the brunette.

He glanced over, then shrugged. "No idea. New reporter, I guess."

"Brianna Granger," she said suddenly, as if on cue. I caught the name as she spoke to another journalist, the sound of it sharp and clear. It suited her—strong, confident, with an edge that made you want to know more.

Coach Brian's voice cut through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present. "Cooperfield, get ready. You're going in."

Finally. The moment I'd been waiting for. I sprang to my feet, every muscle coiled and ready to prove a point. I wasn't just going to play—I was going to show Coach exactly what he'd been missing.

The second I stepped onto the pitch, the atmosphere changed. The ball was mine, and I wasn't going to waste any time. The opposition was good, but I was better, and I was going to remind everyone of that.

The crowd's energy surged, and I could feel eyes on me, waiting, expecting something big. I wasn't going to disappoint. The ball came to me, and immediately, I could feel the difference. This was where I belonged, in the thick of it, where every second mattered, where the game moved fast and you had to be faster.

I took control, weaving through their defense with a speed and precision that had the crowd on its feet again. The opposition knew who I was—they'd been marking me hard all game, and they weren't about to let me make an easy play. One of their defenders came in with a heavy challenge, trying to throw me off balance, but I kept my footing, pushing past him with a burst of speed.

As I moved up the field, I saw the opening I needed. The goalkeeper was off his line, just enough for me to exploit it. I went for it, striking the ball with the outside of my boot. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down—the crowd's roar fading into the background, my heart pounding in my ears. And then, the ball sailed past the keeper, hitting the back of the net.

The stadium erupted, the noise crashing over me like a wave. But I wasn't done. We needed another goal to seal the deal, and I was going to make sure we got it.

A few minutes after my first goal, we were pressing hard, determined to widen the gap. The ball moved quickly between our midfielders, each pass sharper than the last. I stayed in motion, scanning the field for any openings. The opposition was tightening their defense, desperate to keep us from scoring again, but that only fueled my determination.

The ball came out to our winger, who managed to outrun their fullback. I sprinted into the box, timing my run perfectly. As I closed in on the goal, I saw the winger glance up, and in that split second, our eyes met. He knew exactly what I needed.

He delivered a perfect cross, the ball curving beautifully through the air, just out of reach of their defenders. I leaped, muscles coiled like a spring, and connected with the ball using the side of my head, sending it crashing towards the far post. But instead of going for glory, I angled it across the goal, right into the path of Jamie who was storming in from the other side.

The pass was precise, and my teammate didn't hesitate. He met the ball with a powerful volley, striking it cleanly into the back of the net. The goalkeeper didn't stand a chance.

2-1. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, the roar shaking the very foundations of the stadium. I could feel the adrenaline surging through me, the pure exhilaration of not just scoring but setting up the perfect play. This was why I loved the game—those moments of absolute connection, where everything clicks, and you know that you've just turned the tide.

As my teammates swarmed around me in celebration, I couldn't help but steal a glance at the sidelines. The brunette reporter was still there, watching me, and for a brief moment, I wondered if she'd caught all of it, if she realized just how pivotal that play had been.

As the final whistle blew, relief flooded through me, mixed with a sense of triumph. I'd done what I set out to do—showed Coach that benching me had been a mistake. But as I walked off the field, breathing hard, that brunette was there again, making her way towards me.

"Alex Cooperfield," she said, her voice steady and professional, "Brianna Granger, Premier League Sports. Can I ask you a few questions about the game?"

I couldn't resist the chance to be a little playful. Grinning, I looked her up and down. "You can ask me anything, darling."

She didn't even blink, her expression turning icy. "Let's keep this professional, Mr. Cooperfield."

"Feisty, I like it," I said, the grin still on my face.

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed, and I could see that she was already done with me before I'd even properly answered her first question. But there was something about the challenge in her eyes that made me want to keep pushing, to see just how far I could go.