A low murmur that grows and grows until—
“LAKEWOOD! LAKEWOOD!”
The first ball lands at his feet and for the first time today it’s like watching a pianist return to the stage.
One touch, two, three—perfect control, burst, shot.
The ball slices through the air and rattles off the crossbar.
The stadium gasps.
Then, on the rebound, he catches it again and—
GOAL.
The standsexplode.
Mom and I jump, scream at the top of our lungs, and throw our arms around each other.
Dad pumps a fist in the air.
And I’m positive I imagined Cohen winking toward me.
Idiot. Show-off. Annoying. Impossible.
As usual.
There’s no way he did.
Right?
I’m somewhere between “national pride” and “public hazard with hormones.”
Cohen Becker runs to his teammates, swallowed in a pile of Blaze, Turbo, and Saint.
“I’d say he’s back,” Mom comments.
“Mh.”
“‘Mh’ what? He’s making an entire stadium lose its mind.”
“He’s playing well, that’s all.”
“And you’re looking at him like he just invented oxygen.”
I ignore her.
Or try to.
The match picks up with even more intensity.
It’s like the team’s heart is beating again.
Saint orchestrates the midfield like a conductor, Turbo flies down the wing with his usual cocky energy, Doc controls every pass, and Derek “The Wall” is a literal fortress.
Blaze—my new personal hero—smashes the ball with ridiculous power, and Cohen returns the favor with a textbook assist.
A second goal.
