𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨

Chapter 20 - Euros (Pt 4.)

27th July 2022
Chloé pov - present
The stadium hums with anticipation. Milton Keynes. Semi-final of EURO 2022. France against Germany. I stand in the tunnel, hearing the thudding of boots on the floor, feeling the low rumble of the crowd outside. It's deafening and comforting all at once, that familiar electric charge of nerves before a big game. My heart races in my chest, but I’ve been here before. This moment, this feeling. I know what to do. As we walk out onto the pitch, the sea of blue, white, and red greets us, but the German fans are loud, too. This is their ground as much as it is ours tonight. I glance at my teammates. Wendie Renard standing tall, Delphine Cascarino focused, her eyes fixed forward. We exchange nods, no words needed. We’ve been fighting for this all tournament long, and we’ve come too far to stop now.

When the whistle blows, everything fades away. The noise, the pressure, the outside world. It’s just us and them. Germany presses hard from the start, their movement sharp, their passes crisp. They’re quick, as always, but we match them. The ball moves back and forth, a constant battle for control. I make my runs, trying to find space between their center-backs. Every time the ball comes near me, I feel that fire ignite. I know what I’m capable of. I’ve trained my whole life for nights like this. And then, in the 40th minute, there’s a breakthrough. Just not the one we want. Alexandra Popp. She’s there, towering over our defenders as a cross comes in from the left. I leap, trying to help in defense, but she gets the slightest touch to the ball and flicks it past our keeper. 1-0, Germany.

The noise around the stadium swells, and it feels like the world tilts for a moment. But there’s no time to dwell. No time to let the doubt creep in. We’re France, and we don’t give up. I shout to my teammates, trying to rally them, and Wendie responds with her usual fire. We fight back hard. The intensity only rises as we push for an equalizer before the half ends. I can feel the German defense growing tense. They’re trying to hold us off, but we’re relentless. And then, just before the halftime whistle, we get our chance. Kadidiatou Diani bursts down the wing, her pace tearing open their defense. I sprint toward the box, staying alert, waiting. She fires a shot. It’s powerful, low, but it smashes against the post. For a moment, everything slows, and I see the ball ricochet off Merle Frohms, their goalkeeper. It’s an own goal. 1-1.

My heart leaps, the adrenaline rushing through me as our team celebrates. We’re back in it. Everything feels possible again. The whistle blows for halftime, and we jog off the pitch, our spirits lifted, the game hanging in the balance. But when we come back out for the second half, Germany has something more. I can see it in their eyes. The determination, the steel. They’re coming at us with everything, and we’re forced to match them. The game turns into a war of attrition, and every pass, every tackle feels like it could swing the game one way or the other. Then it happens. Another German attack. They get into our box, and before I know it, the ball is whipped in again from the right. It’s Popp, once more. She rises above us all like a shadow and heads the ball perfectly into the top corner. 2-1.

The shock is instant. The weight of it settles in my chest, a crushing sense of déjà vu from the first goal. The German players celebrate, and we stand there, stunned for a moment. But I force myself to shake it off. There’s still time. We’re not done. We push, attacking relentlessly, trying to claw our way back. Every pass, every shot, I can feel the desperation creeping in. I make my runs, but the German defense is impenetrable. They’re smart. They drop deeper, defending their lead with everything they have. As the clock ticks down, my body starts to ache. Every muscle burns, but I push harder. I have to. For my teammates, for the badge on my chest, for France. But no matter what we throw at them, Germany holds strong. The final whistle pierces the air like a knife, and I stop dead in my tracks. 2-1. We’re out. It’s over.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I bend over, my hands on my knees, trying to process the crushing disappointment. The German players are celebrating on the other side of the pitch, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. I hear some of my teammates sobbing softly behind me. Wendie, always the captain, tries to console them, but even she looks lost. I straighten up slowly, trying to gather myself, but it’s hard. This was supposed to be our moment. I believed it with every fiber of my being, and now it’s slipped through our fingers. I feel the tears stinging my eyes, but I blink them back, swallowing the lump in my throat. I walk over to the French supporters, my legs heavy, my heart even heavier. I raise my hand to acknowledge them. They’ve been incredible, standing with us through every match. I owe them at least that.

But I can’t stand out here any longer. The weight of the loss is too much. I turn, heading toward the tunnel, trying to escape the noise, the cameras, the heartbreak. As I step outside the stadium, the cool night air hits me, but it doesn’t offer the relief I’m looking for. I stand there, feeling lost, feeling empty. I don’t know what to do with myself, how to process all of this. Then I see her. Mapi. She’s waiting for me, leaning against a railing, her face soft with concern. Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like everything else fades away. The disappointment, the noise, the failure. I walk toward her slowly, and when I reach her, she wraps me in her arms without saying a word. I bury my face in her shoulder, letting her hold me, letting the tears I’ve been holding back finally fall. Her hands are gentle, stroking my hair, and her presence calms the storm inside me. She doesn’t have to say anything. She knows what this feels like. She’s been here before.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, her thumb brushing away a tear from my cheek. “You don’t have to be sorry, Chloé,” she says softly, her Spanish accent laced with tenderness. “You were amazing. You gave everything.” I shake my head, the weight of the loss still sitting heavily on my chest. “It wasn’t enough.” She smiles, a small, sad smile. “Sometimes, it’s not about the outcome. Sometimes it’s about the fight. And you fought with everything you had. I’m proud of you for that.” Her words sink into me, offering a small comfort, a glimmer of light in the darkness of the defeat. She kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes, letting myself lean into her warmth.

I can feel her heartbeat, steady and sure, grounding me when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control. “We’ll come back stronger,” Mapi whispers. “You will. We both will. Just like we always do.” I nod, holding onto her tightly. Because she’s right. We’re not finished. There will be other battles, other nights like this. And next time, maybe the outcome will be different. But for now, I just let myself be here, in her arms, and let the pain of this moment slowly begin to fade away.

Word count: 1303