Neon lights flicker overhead.
The smell of wet grass mixes with hotdogs and fries drifting down from the stands.
The second I step out, the roar hits me in the bones.
Red and white flags everywhere.
A giant banner reading LAKEWOOD PRIDE sways across the stadium.
The whole place vibrates—a living wave.
I press a hand to my chest, right over the number nine.
It burns under my fingertips.
My place.
My field.
My breath.
First half.
The ball moves fast, sharp, alive.
Doc controls the center, Derek commands the defense like a drill sergeant.
Turbo streaks down the wing, Blaze cuts inside.
I look for spaces, anticipate, breathe.
The crowd is loud but muffled—inside my head it’s all rhythm and heartbeat.
My first shot comes at the fourth minute.
Short pass from Saint, chest stop, turn, shoot.
Just wide.
The roar still rises.
My instincts flicker awake.
My body remembers.
“Good idea, Becker!” Heart shouts from the sidelines.
I nod without looking over.
At the twelfth minute, Turbo sends in a perfect cross.
I jump, head it in—
Their keeper barely tips it onto the crossbar.
Post.
More shouts, more applause.
