The Twelth Player

Chapter 1 - Back home

"You've got to be kidding me! You don't even know how to set a table properly!"

I stood there watching as this woman lost her mind over something that no one would normally care about. She made a huge scene because the table was five centimeters off from where she wanted it. Unbelievable. Instead of being grateful that a couple of strong guys hauled her insanely heavy furniture up to the fifth floor without an elevator, she's whining that I didn't park it with millimeter precision.

"And you're ungrateful!" I hissed as I shoved the stupid table into place. "Better now?" I asked, flashing the fakest grin I could manage.

I didn't even need to be here dealing with this. I could've been a famous footballer by now. Me—Mattias Heiberg—from the middle-of-nowhere mountain town of Parodista, handpicked by Detchia, the biggest club in the country. But no, I had to be a total idiot at seventeen. Instead of going to practice and school, I was hitting up clubs and bars. It all ended when I crashed my car drunk and then beat up some guy afterward. That landed me in jail, and of course, Detchia kicked me out.

Eight years later, here I am, back in this dump of a hometown. I managed to finish trade school, so at least I've got some kind of high school diploma. Now I work as a mover and get lectures about how I can't measure five lousy centimeters.

And that wasn't even today's only fail. My girlfriend dumped me over text, the cops fined me for texting while driving, and to top it off, I scratched the company van while parking. Beautiful.

There's just one thing today that might actually go right. My old coach, the one who trained me as a teenager and pulled me out of the local league, brought me onto his team in the third division, Union Parodista. He's like a second father to me, and I feel like he's giving me one last shot to get back into pro football. And today, I'm starting my first game in the lineup. So yeah, I wasn't going to risk being even a second late for pre-game practice. I tore down the stairs like a bullet train and—

"Watch where you're going, damn it!" I snapped as I crashed into something. Or rather, someone.

It was a girl—a pale blonde, at least a head shorter than me. I didn't even see her. She went down like a bowling pin, and her books went flying down the stairs.

As if I didn't have enough problems already. I wanted to tell her to watch where she was going and get out of my way. I was fully expecting her to snap back and call me useless or something. But she didn't. She just silently started picking up her books, not even looking at me properly. I think she even mumbled an apology.

I didn't expect that. Something made me crouch down and help her gather up those damn books.

"Thanks," she muttered quietly. Her voice didn't have even a hint of blame in it. It was calm, soft—and somehow sad.

"Yeah, sure," I muttered back and walked off, just like she did. What was her deal? I was ready for a fight, but she barely said a word.

Standing on the pitch, my heart was pounding. Hearing the fans shout my name as the lineup was announced, I thought: today's the day I prove to everyone I've still got it.

At first, everything was going great. I stopped a couple of dangerous plays from the opponent—just what a center-back should do. But as time went on, things started to slip. The other team figured out how to get past me. Eventually, they scored. Sure, that's normal in football, but to me, it felt like I'd failed. So I decided I had to stop them earlier. No matter what.

And that's where I screwed up.

During one play, I saw their striker heading for our goal. He was still far away, so I had time. But I stopped thinking. I just slid in, full force, desperate to feel in control again. I saw him hit the ground, saw the ref reaching for the red card. Well done, genius.

"What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!" our goalie shouted as I walked off the pitch. But that was nothing compared to what was waiting for me in the locker room.

"You screwed up again, Heiberg! We played the whole second half a man down because of you!"

"Stop acting like an idiot! You only ever think about yourself!"

That kind of crap hit me the second I stepped into the locker room. I wasn't in the mood to make excuses, so I fired right back and told them to shove it.

"Enough!" The coach's voice cut through the noise, shutting everyone up. He looked at me, clearly disappointed.

"Matti, go for a walk. Clear your head. Then come back."

Without a word, I turned around and walked out. What else was there to say?

I wandered through the empty hallways of the stadium, anger bubbling inside me. Frustrated, I kicked over a trash can. It didn't help. I couldn't calm down. My mind kept replaying everything that had gone wrong. I have no idea how long I was pacing like that.

Then I heard yelling. I stopped and listened for a moment to figure out where it was coming from. The sound led me to one of those back rooms no one really uses. I moved closer and peeked inside.

There she was—the girl from the stairs, holding a mop. Must've been working as a cleaner. And standing in front of her was this angry-looking guy.

"You're completely useless!" he spat at her. "Can't even clean properly! Didn't you see the spilled trash? You're a total zero!"

Then he yanked the mop out of her hands and cross-checked her with it. She fell to the ground like a rag doll. Something in me snapped. That guy dared to push fragile woman—for something I had done. I was the one who kicked over that trash can. The thought made me sick.

"What the hell are you doing? Are you out of your mind?" I growled, stepping into the room.

The guy turned to me, and as soon as he saw me coming closer, he backed off. "This isn't your business, man," he said, but his voice shook. I took another step toward him, and before I could say anything else, he turned tail and bolted.

The girl was still on the floor, trying to get up. I could see her hands trembling. Slowly, I walked over to her.

"You okay?" I asked gently.

I thought she might say something, maybe even thank me. But instead, she just got up and ran off. Didn't even look back.

I stood there, stunned. Honestly, I didn't even know why I'd stepped in.

But then it hit me. That anger—that's me. Seeing it from the outside, seeing what it does to people—it was like getting slapped awake. That guy with the mop? That's what I must look like when I lose my temper. That's me when I act like a fool. And it's terrifying.

"It was like looking in a mirror," I told the coach later, when he asked me what I thought about what happened today. "Seeing that guy yelling at her, shoving her—it made me realize that's how people must see me when I lose it."

The coach nodded. "Matti, you're on the right track," he said calmly. "Go home, get some rest. Tomorrow will be better."

I nodded back and left. After everything that happened today, I ended up accepting an invite from my mom for dinner. Don't ask me why. Maybe I just didn't want to be alone.

Sitting at the table, I was still stewing. "Why does everything have to go wrong? Am I just that useless?" I finally burst out.

Mom and Dad just listened as I told them everything that had happened.

"You know, Matti," Mom said softly, "it was just a bad day. Everyone has them. You're not useless. There's more good in you than you realize. Standing up for that girl today—that wasn't nothing."

Dad nodded. "You make mistakes, sure. But I can see you're changing. You're not the same kid you were eight years ago."

I finished my meal, and as I got up from the table, it hit me. Maybe I'm not as hopeless as I thought after all.