Noah’s like a whole different person.
First, he tries to chat with me in the change rooms like we’re best mates—newsflash: we’re not. Then, he plays the game of his life, with clean slide tackles, well-timed passes, and he even sets up Mathers for a cracking header from a free kick.
Our second goal comes from Jasper’s corner, catching Macquarie’s keeper off guard. Kale whips in a brilliant cross to the back post, where our new striker, Blake Logan, is waiting to tap it home with ease.
By half time, we’re up two-nil, and the vibe in the change rooms is electric. Everyone is laughing and smiling, but I keep my excitement reined in. We still have forty-five minutes to play. Anything can happen.
Though Macquarie hasn’t scored yet, they’ve fought hard to get on the board. They’ve been peppering shots at me all night. My body aches, but in a good way.
“Keep this up, boys,” Noah calls over the noise, “and we might finally get our first win of the season.”
Our teammates cheer, but I scoff to myself and shake my head. He’s a large part of why we’re winless so far. Don’t get mewrong, there are others on the team who have had off games, myself included, but we owned our mistakes. This arsehole was content to rag on the rest of us. Mainly me, if I’m being honest. Now he’s had some sort of lobotomy, he’s going to play the hero. Our fearless captain coming in to lead us to victory? Pfft, please.
“You’re like a ball magnet out there tonight,” he says, dropping onto the bench seat next to me and nudging my shoulder with his. The heat of his body sends a zap of electricity through me, but I block it out, hating how his dark features remind me of my shadow from the club.
I draw my gaze to his as I pull off my gloves and run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, but I don’t say anything. Why should I, when he’s given me nothing but attitude since I earned my spot in the starting eleven?
Unperturbed by my silence, he keeps talking. “The way you kept your feet against Razzi in that last attempt to score, knocking him back three times then flying across the net to stop him scoring top bins. Impressive, man.”
“Thanks,” I grunt.
“Your reaction time is on point.”
Sick of whatever bullshit games he’s playing, I fix him with a glare. “Is there a reason you’re laying it on so thick?”
His brow furrows. “I’m giving credit where it’s due.”
“Bit rich after all your underhanded comments since I took over from Peters.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but Coach Johnson calls for our attention, and the room goes quiet.
“This is the fight we’ve been missing,” he says. “You’re finally playing for each other, trusting your teammates. We’re winning the ball and we’re using the space with purpose. But the game isn’t done. Keep moving and breaking through their lines. For the next forty-five, we attack the ball. If we want the win, we have to take it.”
A cheerbreaks out, and he waits for it to wane before continuing.
“Sport, like life, is all about body language. Believe you’re winners, walk out on the pitch like you’re winners, and from the kick off, you play like winners.” He taps his temples. “You control your thoughts, and you keep your thoughts positive. If you believe you can, you will.”
My stomach flips, adrenaline pumping through my veins. This is exactly the fire-up we need before the second half.
Then the arsehole sitting next to me speaks.
“Let’s lock in, boys. Get around each other and show Macquarie who they’re messing with.”
Coach Johnson grins as the team whoops and cheers again, jumping to their feet and slapping each other on the back as they gather around Coach Raynor while he goes through some plays. I remain seated, trying to get my head back in the game and off the Jekyll and Hyde performance of my centre-back.
“All good, Kincaid?” Coach Johnson stands in front of me, concern etched on his face.
“Fine, Coach,” I assure him, forcing a smile. “Just visualising that win.”
He gives a curt nod. “You’re doing well out there tonight. Keep up the good work.”
This time my smile is more genuine. “Thanks.”
“Razzi will be hungry to slot one past you,” he says, referring to the opposition striker. “There hasn’t been a game in the past two seasons where he hasn’t scored. Let’s make tonight the first.”
No pressure.
But the challenge has a spark flickering to life, like someone lit a match inside my chest. Razzi won the Golden Boot for the most goals scored in the league last year. Hemay score against everyone else, but not against me. Not tonight.
