𝙄𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙌𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙈𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 - 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘥

𝙎𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙮 𝙎𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘎𝘢𝘮𝘦

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation. Flags waved furiously in the stands, and I could hear the distant chants of both English and Spanish fans echoing across the pitch. I tried to block it all out, focusing on the moment—this moment. The World Cup final. It was surreal, standing here, knowing that everything I had ever worked for, dreamed of, came down to this.

My eyes scanned the Spanish players, settling on Ona Batlle. Her face was set, determined, just like mine. We'd faced each other many times before, but nothing like this. This was for everything. There was no room for mistakes, no second chances. We both knew it.

As the whistle blew and the game kicked off, all the noise, all the pressure, faded into the background. This was just football now—eleven against eleven. Spain came out strong, their possession game as deadly as ever, moving the ball with precision, keeping us on the back foot early on. But we were England, and we weren't going to let them dictate the game.

I found myself matched up against Ona right from the start, her every movement sharp, calculated. I could feel her eyes on me every time I got the ball, every time I pushed forward. I knew what she was trying to do—get inside my head. But I couldn't let her. Not today.

The first twenty minutes flew by in a blur of intensity. Both sides were battling hard for control of the midfield, and neither team had managed to create any clear-cut chances. But then, in the 29th minute, Spain broke through.

It was quick, almost too quick. Ona Batlle picked up the ball deep in her own half and exploded forward, her pace and control breathtaking as she surged past our midfield. I sprinted back to cover her, trying to close her down, but she was too fast, her touches too precise. She slipped past me and delivered a low pass to Mariona Caldantey who did the same to Olga Carmona, who was waiting just outside the box.

Olga took one touch to set herself, then unleashed a low shot that curled perfectly past Mary and into the far corner of the net.

1-0. Spain.

For a moment, everything stopped. I stood there, my breath catching in my throat as the Spanish section of the crowd erupted in wild celebration. My heart sank, but I couldn't afford to dwell on it. I shook myself out of it, clenching my fists. There was still time. We had to respond.

The minutes that followed were some of the hardest I'd ever played. Spain, buoyed by their lead, continued to press us, their intricate passing game making it nearly impossible to get a foothold. Every time I tried to push forward, Ona was there, marking me tightly, not giving me an inch of space. It was like she was everywhere, always one step ahead, and it was getting into my head.

I could feel the frustration building, not just in me, but in my teammates. We needed a moment—something to break Spain's rhythm. Sarina's voice echoed in my ears, telling us to keep our shape, keep fighting. But every time we thought we'd broken through, Spain's defense closed us down. They were like a wall.

As halftime approached, we pressed harder, desperate for an equalizer. I pushed up from the back, trying to get more involved in the attack. But again, there she was—Ona Batlle, intercepting a through ball that was meant for me. She turned, glancing at me briefly before driving forward, leaving me chasing after her. It was a bitter reminder of how well she knew my game, of how closely she had studied me.

The halftime whistle blew, and I trudged off the pitch with the others, my heart pounding, frustration gnawing at my insides. In the locker room, Sarina's voice was calm but sharp. She pointed out the spaces we needed to exploit, where Spain was leaving themselves vulnerable, but I couldn't stop thinking about that moment—when Ona had outplayed me. I couldn't let it happen again.