NIKE -Blue Lock-

Beginning of the end

1-0
Begin of the second half

It's not easy to describe that silence filling her mind. Everything is calm, everything is still, everything is flat, everything is... nothing.

Her heartbeat is slow, controlled, light. She can barely hear it in her ears as her red eyes scan the bodies of those who will soon kneel before her.

It's a peaceful sensation.
Not necessarily a good one, but not bad either. The truly good feeling comes at the end, when her name is chanted like a triumphant hymn.

Her face turns slowly as she registers the touch of a hand on her shoulder, but her pupils, locked onto the face of one of those bodies, do not register the gaze nor the movement of their lips.

Everything is slow, sluggish, drained. Almost like a slow-motion sequence.

The calm before the storm, some might say.

"The teams are preparing for the second half, getting into formation on their respective sides of the field." the commentator's voice is distant, like a faint echo barely reaching the red-haired figure.

Her eyes are fixed on her cleats, planted in the spot that belongs to the central forward of the formation. Her pupils narrow as she tilts her head to one side, exhaling a breath that turns to vapor in the crisp Spanish night air.

She slowly closes her eyes.
Darkness fills her mind, silences the noise, dims the floodlights shining on her, ignores the gazes studying her.

Then, after a few moments, her pupils open again, and all her senses return with her vision.

Roars. People screaming her fake first name, her real last name, the team she was playing for. Some chanted the name of the athlete she would soon reduce to nothing more than just a man, while others played music for the master strikers renowned worldwide.

Lowering her gaze to her hands, she massaged the abductor muscle of her thumb, barely listening to the muddled voices around her.

She could feel the eyes of those who knew the truth—locked onto her from every corner of the field: north, south, east, west, northwest, northeast, southwest, southeast.

Her red irises lifted to meet the citrine-colored eyes of the man standing in the same position as her—only on the opposite side of the line.

They studied each other intensely.

Silent words traveled between their gazes, messages sent by him and reflected back by her, unable to break past the glassy veil in her stare.

The number one clenched his jaw slightly, nodding to himself as he lowered his gaze.

Trying to communicate with her was impossible.
There was no Nicole.
There was no Nicklaus.

Not anymore.
Not in that moment.

The referee approached as he listened to someone in his earpiece, absently yet precisely placing the ball at the redhead's feet.

He gave her a thumbs-up, asking if she was ready.
A single nod was his only response.

"ARE YOU READY FOR THIS SECOND HALF?!"
The stadium erupted at the commentator's electrified question.

Her crimson eyes studied the formations.

4-3-3.
4-5-1.

The first defensive since the front line of attackers.
The second isolating the main forward ahead of the rest.

Of course, the latter belonged to the red-haired athlete.

The protagonist lowered her face, her eyes piercing through the ball as she mapped out the sequence of the next ninety seconds in her head.