Broken Hands

72. Illusional Disappointment

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the soccer field as Russell barked out instructions to his team. The Mediterranean Club, clad in their blue jerseys, moved like a restless tide under his command.

"Keep the line tight!" Russell shouted, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. "Watch for their left wing—Badmus loves to sneak through there!"

The opposing team, known as the Badmus Attack, was relentless. Quick passes and unpredictable maneuvers kept Russell's team on edge, but he wasn't about to let them gain the upper hand. He signaled to his teammates, forming a quick strategy as the ball darted between players.

"Push forward!" Russell commanded, his voice steady but urgent.

The ball landed at his feet, and he didn't hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent it sailing to his teammate, who caught it mid-stride and surged down the field, outpacing his opponents. The ball weaved back and forth, passes growing sharper, faster, until it returned to Russell.

This was it.

Russell steadied himself, focusing on the net. The goalkeeper lunged, but Russell's kick was true. The ball whizzed past the keeper's outstretched hands and slammed into the back of the net.

Cheers erupted from the stands. The sound was electric, a wave of energy that coursed through Russell as he glanced toward the bleachers. Familiar faces popped into view—Grace and Julian perched beside Grayson and Alex. His heart gave a jolt as his gaze moved to the end of the row.

Damien.

His father was there, clapping, his expression serious but proud. Russell's chest swelled with a rare happiness as Damien's eyes met his. When Damien raised a thumb in approval, Russell felt a surge of energy, unlike anything he'd ever known.

He's here. He's watching.

As the team retreated for the break, the coach gathered them into a huddle. Russell barely heard the plan to swap players, his mind already strategizing. He could taste victory—it was within their grasp. He had to win and make his father see that he was strong.

When the whistle blew, the game resumed, but something had shifted. The Badmus Attack came back with a vengeance, tightening their formation and playing defensively. Mediterranean was still leading 3-2, but every advance was met with a wall of resistance.

Russell fought for an opening, weaving past defenders as he scanned the field ignoring how his muscles ached as he applied more strength to the dribbling and race. A teammate rushed forward. Without hesitation, Russell passed the ball. It had to be good, they were right in front of the goal, and a powerful kick would do!

It took a second too long for realization to dawn. Cooper!

"Shoot!" Russell yelled, his voice sharp with urgency. But Cooper hesitated, dribbling the ball forward instead of taking the clear shot.

"Kick it!" Russell's voice cracked, frustration surging.

The hesitation cost them. An opponent surged in, colliding with Cooper just as he attempted a shot. The ball deflected, but Cooper's foot smashed into the other player's face.

The player hit the ground with a thud.

"Fuck," Russell muttered under his breath, sprinting toward the scene. Blood pooled on the grass as the medical staff rushed in. Cooper stood frozen, his face pale.

The referee raised a red card toward Cooper, while the injured player's team was awarded a foul. The penalty kick sailed cleanly into the Mediterranean net, tying the score.