USWNT: A New Era

Chapter 15: Final Audition

The bus ride to the stadium in Los Angeles was electric with a mix of excitement and nerves. The players were talking, but I kept my headphones in, zoning out the noise. As the coach rolled up to the stadium, I could already see the crowd outside. Fans lined up in droves, waving flags, wearing jerseys, and chanting. The media, of course, were there too, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions about everything from my tactics to the rumors about Sakina. I kept my head down, walking off the bus with purpose. I didn't have time for distractions today.

Inside the locker room, I could feel the tension in the air. The match against Canada wasn't just another game; it was a war, a grudge match between two fierce rivals. As the players got ready, I stood in the middle of the room, taking in the moment.

"Listen up!" I barked. Conversations died instantly, and all eyes turned toward me.

"This match is what everything has been about. Every training session, every lap, every drop of sweat you've put in leads to this moment. I want them gasping for air, I want their lungs to burn. You don't let them breathe, not for one second. We don't give them an inch. We press, we attack, and we crush them."

I glanced around the room, locking eyes with each player. "If you don't perform today, don't expect to be on that plane to Paris. I'm dead serious. This is your final audition. Show me why you deserve it. You play like it's your last game."

The room was quiet, the gravity of my words sinking in. "No mercy today. We dominate. We make them pay for every mistake."

The players stood up, some hyped, others steely-eyed. I could see they were ready to fight. As we walked out to the tunnel, the roar of the crowd grew louder. My heart pounded in rhythm with the noise, but I kept my focus sharp.

On the sidelines, the tension was palpable. Canada was no joke, but neither were we. The match started fast—too fast. Right away, I could tell the girls were off balance. Sloppy passes, mistimed tackles, it was chaos. Canada struck first, taking advantage of a defensive miscue, and scored. 1-0. My blood boiled.

I paced the sidelines, hands clenched, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "Get it together! What the hell was that? You want to lose this match? Fight back!"

The players knew what that meant. There were no second chances. I gestured harshly, slicing my hand across my neck in the cut-throat motion—get rid of the softness, kill the hesitation. Then, I made the 'up yours' gesture, a signal that wasn't lost on anyone familiar with English football.

"Burn their lungs!" I screamed. "No mercy! Don't let them breathe!"

We clawed back into the game, playing aggressive, hard-nosed football. It wasn't pretty, but I didn't care about pretty. I cared about results. By halftime, I was furious. The score remained 1-0, and I stormed into the locker room.

"You think this is good enough?" I spat, pacing in front of the players. "You're letting them walk all over you. They should be broken by now, but no, you're letting them have space, letting them play! That's not who we are!"

I slammed a fist against the wall. "I want them crushed. You press every chance you get, you challenge for every ball like your life depends on it. You play like you want it! Prove to me you deserve that shirt!"

The second half began, and something shifted. We started pressing harder, making life hell for Canada. Tackles came in heavy, shoulders barged, and they couldn't get comfortable on the ball. Our first goal came from relentless pressure, forcing a mistake in their defense that led to a quick counterattack. 1-1.

But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more.

"Keep going!" I yelled. "Make them regret stepping on this field!"

Late into the game, we managed to find a second goal. Another bit of chaos in the box led to a scrappy finish. 2-1. We were ahead, but I wasn't happy. I screamed for them to keep pushing, to not let up for a second.

"Don't get comfortable!" I bellowed. "Finish this!"

Canada tried to rally, but we suffocated them with the high press. By the time the final whistle blew, we had won, but it didn't feel like a victory to me. I walked over to the players, my face stone cold.

"Good result," I said, voice low but firm. "But that was lucky. If you play like that in Paris, you'll get embarrassed. I want more, much more."

The team knew me well enough by now to know that a win wasn't enough. It had to be a statement, and today wasn't it. As the media swarmed the field, snapping photos and shouting questions, I ignored them. I wasn't in the mood to deal with their noise.

In the back of my mind, I was already thinking about the next step. Paris was only a week away, and if this was any sign of what we were bringing, I knew I had work to do.

I climbed back onto the bus, the sound of the crowd fading as the doors closed. As I stared out the window, all I could think about was one thing: We had to be better. Winning wasn't enough. We had to dominate.

But as my phone buzzed in my pocket with another text from Sakina, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of something else—something beyond football. I quickly glanced at the screen, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips before I shoved the phone back in my pocket.

Right now, football was my priority, and I wasn't letting anyone or anything take that focus away. Not yet.