Everything with you

Part 67

Justin

The whistle blew, and the second half kicked off.

0–2.

That score stared back at us like a deadline we couldn't push anymore. Two goals to equal. One more to win. Forty-five minutes to rewrite everything.

I looked around at my team as we lined up—shoulders still bruised, faces tight with pressure—but there was something different now. A shift. No one was slouching. No one was sulking.

They were listening.

We'd walked off the first half beaten. But now? Now they looked like they still believed.

The first few minutes were all about control. We stopped matching their aggression and stopped taking the bait. Every time their striker lunged at Nate, he slipped right past him. Joel played low and fast, weaving around tackles like he could see three seconds into the future. Ash held midfield with this calm precision, delivering passes like bullets through the tiniest gaps.

We weren't trying to overpower them anymore—we were outsmarting them.

Then it happened.

We caught them high up on our half, too eager to press. George sent a through ball wide to me—I was already sprinting down the right wing before it reached me. Their defender came in hard, expecting the usual clash.

I let the ball slide just a beat longer and sliced it back behind him with the inside of my cleat. He lunged too far forward and missed. I was gone.

The crowd started rising.

I scanned—Nate was already cutting in near the far post.

I bent the cross low and sharp.

He met it with a slide, caught it with his left foot, and it slammed past their keeper before he could drop to the grass.

GOAL.

We didn't cheer.

Not yet.

We ran back, grabbing each other's backs, slapping palms, and shouting instructions—but we didn't celebrate.

We weren't done.

And something cracked in them too—the other team. They started arguing among themselves. Their formation got sloppier. Their defense? A half-step too slow now. We smelled blood.

Ten minutes later, it was chaos again.

Ash intercepted a sloppy pass in midfield and one-touched it to Joel, who tapped it to me before getting hammered by a late tackle. The ref finally raised a yellow at them—but I didn't wait. I pushed forward.

Two defenders came at me. I faked right and nudged left. Got clipped but kept moving.

Then I saw Nate.

He was already in the box, near the penalty spot—marked, but he raised a hand for the cross.

I didn't think.

I curved it high, cutting away from the keeper.

Nate jumped.

He wasn't even supposed to be able to reach that ball. But somehow—he did.

A snap of his neck, a perfectly timed leap.

Header.

Goal.

The stadium erupted.

We exploded off the bench.

People were on their feet, screaming. Coach jumped and actually fist-pumped the air, something I'd never seen him do before. My dad was shouting from the stands, and beside him, Emma had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide, like she couldn't believe what she just saw.