Until my Last Breath

32

Barcelona, Spain

Gavi
It's the third match of the season, and I can already feel the pressure crushing me. My feet feel heavy as I step onto the pitch. Everything I do lately seems wrong-every touch, every pass, every decision feels off. The confidence I used to have, the fire that made me feel untouchable, is nowhere to be found.

I hear the crowd roaring as we walk out. Normally, the sound would energize me, but tonight it just feels distant, like it's happening to someone else. My chest feels tight. I tell myself to focus, to let everything else fall away, but it's like my head is stuck in a fog.

The game starts, and it's a mess from the beginning. My passes are sloppy, and every time I try to recover, it's like I'm two steps behind. I can hear my coach yelling from the sideline, but his voice is just noise. All I can think about is how much I'm screwing this up.

The ball comes to me, and I try to push forward, but a defender slams into me, hard. My body stumbles, and the ball is gone. The referee doesn't call it, and the player jogs away, smirking. I can feel my blood boiling.

I try to shake it off, but it's like a match has been lit inside me. Every foul, every missed call, every jeer from the opposing fans-everything feels personal. The guy who pushed me brushes past again, shoulder-checking me as he passes, and that's it.

I snap.

I turn and shove him, hard. My chest slams into his, and before I can even think about what I'm doing, my arm swings out, clipping him. He goes down like he's been shot, and the ref's whistle blows immediately.

I freeze, realizing what I've done. The player is on the ground, clutching his face, and the crowd is going insane. The referee doesn't hesitate. He marches straight toward me, holding up the red card.

My stomach drops.

The crowd erupts, and I just stand there, unable to move. My teammates are yelling at the ref, trying to argue, but I know there's no point. I messed up. Badly.

The walk off the pitch feels like it takes forever. The boos from the opposing fans and the murmurs from our own are deafening. My chest is tight, and my hands are trembling. I don't dare look up as I pass the bench. Xavi's face is a mask of disappointment, and I can't even meet his eyes.

Inside the locker room, the silence is suffocating. I sit on the bench, staring at the floor, my mind racing. The season's barely started, and I've already screwed it all up.

Two-game suspension. That's what the red card means. Two games to sit on the sidelines and watch while someone else takes my spot. And maybe... maybe I don't get it back.

The thought makes my chest ache.

I hear the door open and close as the rest of the team comes in after the game. We lost, of course. The tension is thick in the air. No one says anything to me, but I can feel their eyes. I know what they're thinking: He's a liability. He let his temper get the better of him.

Xavi pulls me aside after his team talk. His voice is calm, but it cuts deeper than if he'd yelled. "You can't keep doing this, Gavi. You're too good to throw it away like this. But if you don't get your head straight, someone else will take your place. I can't protect you if this keeps happening."

I nod, barely able to speak. I know he's right. But knowing it and fixing it are two different things.

By the time I leave the stadium, it's late. The streets are quiet, but my mind is anything but. I keep replaying the moment over and over in my head, wishing I could take it back. Wishing I could've kept my cool.

I get home and throw my bag on the floor. The apartment feels empty, even though I know Amelie will call soon, asking what happened. I don't want to deal with her. I don't want to deal with anyone.

I sit on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. My hands are shaking again, and I clench them into fists, trying to steady myself.

What is wrong with me? This isn't who I am. At least, it didn't used to be.

I grab my phone and open social media, even though I know I shouldn't. The headlines are already everywhere. "Gavi's Temper Costs Barça Again." "Red Card Gavi: Is He a Risk for the First Team?"

The comments are worse. Fans tearing me apart, calling me reckless, saying I'm not good enough for the team. Saying I don't deserve the shirt.

I toss the phone aside, my chest heaving.

I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to get back to the player I used to be. But if I don't figure it out soon, I know I'll lose everything I've worked for.

And that scares me more than anything.