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• This Book contains high doses of Smutt. This is the only warning.
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Hazel is a medical student. Bachelor in science, who is constantly juggling between the demands for these studies and pressures for c...
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The stadium buzzed once again with an incredible energy that seeped into my spine.
The screams coming from both sides of the stadium merged the excitement, encapsulating me into an intoxicating cage filled with joy.
The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the subtler aroma of leather from my trappers brought back those core memories, placing a smile on my nervous face.
Somewhere in those stands were the scouts— the ones who could change everything for me. My heart was pounding in my chest, each beat going off like a drum in my ears.
I stood in goal, the sun beating down to cast a bright glare off the green field before me.
"Come on, Chace!" it said. The words were coming from the stands, but they were distant, somewhere beneath the water.
My teammates looked to me then for my signal, my lead. I was their captain. Their anchor. I couldn't let them down.
The whistle of the referee cut through the air like a knife. The game kicked off, and the world narrowed on the field in front of me.
The first few minutes kind of blurred together, the green of the grass, bright jerseys flashing across, and the white of the ball zipping back and forth.
The other team was aggressive, cleats pounding the turf as they pressed forward, testing our defense. But we held the line, meeting their challenge for a challenge, the impact of every collision resonating through my body.
In one swift second, it was different. One of the rival team's midfielders sliced through our defense with that perfect pass, threading the needle, as the saying went.
My breath caught in my throat as their striker broke free, a blur of motion coming toward me. My defenders scrambled, their shouts melding together in the background, but I knew this was all up to me. It was my moment.
His cleats pounded the ground, the striker closing the distance with each thunderous beat of his feet. My heart was pounding in my chest, the sound of my blood rushing in my ears.
The crowd noise fell away, and the world shrank to just me, the striker, and that ball. I could smell the sharp metallic tang of adrenaline hanging in the air and feel the rough texture of the turf beneath my cleats as I shifted my weight, ready to pounce.
He feinted left, then right; his body was a fluid movement that would have charmed a lesser keeper. But I wasn't buying it. I crouched low, my eyes glued to the ball, tracking each twitch and flick with the hyper-focus of a predator. And then, in an instant, he snapped his foot around and let fly with a powerful strike, the ball rocketing off his boot.
I heard the dull thud of leather meeting leather, the air part as the ball shot toward the bottom corner like a bullet.
Time slowed, the world moving slowly as I launched myself into the air, muscles burning with the effort. My fingertips brushed the ball, just enough to send it skimming off course.
