GNS: A Rising Striker

Chapter 2: The Moment of Truth

My foot hits the ball with everything I’ve got, sending it hurtling towards the far post. I barely feel the defenders closing in on me as my whole world narrows to that small, white sphere. It’s soaring, curving just out of the goalkeeper’s reach, and for a split second, I’m convinced.

It’s going in.

This is it.

But then… thud.

The ball clips the outside of the post, spinning out of play.

A wave of silence crashes through the stadium, the noise swallowed by disbelief. I fall to my knees, staring at the spot where the ball should’ve been. So close. My hands dig into the grass as frustration rises in my chest. One inch to the right, and we’d be celebrating right now.

The referee’s whistle cuts through the air, announcing the end of regulation time. We’re heading into extra time. No one said it would be easy, but this game feels like it’s never going to end.

The minutes between regular time and extra time are a blur of exhaustion and regrouping. My legs are heavy, the kind of heavy that sits in your bones, but we’re not done yet. Joestar jogs over, wiping sweat from his forehead. His eyes lock with mine, and despite everything, there’s still that fire in him, that refusal to let this game slip away.

"Focus," he says simply. I nod.

The whistle blows again, and extra time begins.

Hoffenheim starts with a different energy now, their intensity rising. They’re hungry, and they’re pushing us hard. Every pass they make is more precise, every run sharper. We’re fighting just to keep up. I find myself dropping deeper, closer to Dummy, trying to relieve some of the pressure on our midfield.

Their play is fast, too fast at times. Hoffenheim’s midfielders switch the ball across the pitch with ruthless efficiency, searching for gaps, trying to stretch us thin. Joestar is organizing the defense, shouting out orders, keeping everyone alert. But I can see the strain in his face. We’re all feeling it.

And then, in the 115th minute, Hoffenheim strikes.

One misstep from our midfield, and they slice through us. A quick 1-2 in the center, and suddenly their winger is racing down the left flank, his speed terrifying. He gets past our left-back, who’s been solid all game but is now two steps too slow.

The cross comes in. It’s low and fast, sliding across the grass, aimed perfectly at their striker. Our keeper’s off his line, rushing to intercept, but he’s out of position.

I see it unfolding like a nightmare in slow motion. Hoffenheim’s striker is unmarked, the ball just inches away from his foot.

All he has to do is tap it in.

But then Joestar comes flying out of nowhere.

With a desperation I’ve only seen from him in moments like this, he slides in, his body horizontal as he reaches out with his foot.

He connects.

The ball ricochets off his boot and sails high, away from danger. The striker stumbles, stunned. Joestar’s on the ground, chest heaving, but the job’s done. He’s saved us.

I exhale, my body finally catching up with the adrenaline. The stadium roars in response, a wave of cheers and gasps from both sides. That was too close.

We barely have time to reset before the whistle blows again.

Extra time is over. We’re still locked at 0-0.

The walk to the center of the pitch for penalties is long and quiet, the tension suffocating. All around me, the stadium buzzes with nervous energy. This isn’t about strategy anymore. This is about nerve, about who can keep their cool when everything is on the line.

Coach reads out the order, and I hear my name called for the third penalty. I close my eyes for a second, forcing calm into my system. The pressure’s immense, but I’m not the first. Joestar steps up to take the first kick.

We gather in the center circle, standing together but isolated in our own thoughts. Joestar approaches the penalty spot. He places the ball down carefully, takes a few steps back, and waits for the whistle. The stadium falls silent again, everyone holding their breath.

The whistle blows, and Joestar strides forward, calm and composed, as if this is just another practice session. He strikes the ball low and hard, aiming for the bottom right corner.

The keeper dives, but he’s too late.

The ball hits the back of the net.

We let out a collective breath, but it’s only the beginning. The game isn’t over yet, and penalties are unforgiving.