Again.
We keep pressing.
Forcing mistakes. They start panicking by the tenth minute, misplacing simple passes, booting the ball clear just to breathe. That’s when Amin makes it count. He threads a ridiculous through ball between two centre backs, splitting them clean, then passes it to me. One touch to settle, second to bury it into the bottom corner.
One–nil.
The stadium explodes.
I jog over, grabbing him by the shoulders, shouting in his face even though neither of us can hear a word we’re saying.
I’m never impressed by anyone’s performance during games. But Amin continues to earn my respect. On and off pitch. Amin lifts both arms, soaking it in like he was born for this.
They don’t fold after that, but they wobble.
We feel it.
They push harder, commit more bodies forward, leaving space behind. That’s my favourite part of the game: when teams start getting desperate.
Around the half-hour mark, Solace sends a long diagonal ball my way. I bring it down on my chest, shrug off a defender, and cut inside. Another one steps up.
I don’t even think.
I drop my shoulder, slip between them, and crack the shot low. The keeper gets a hand to it, but not enough.
Two–nil.
The roar hitsme in the chest like a wave. My teammates swarm me, slapping my head, my back, my arms.
“Titan!” someone yells. “That’s you!”
I’m grinning like an idiot as we reset.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Halftime comes and goes in a blur of sweat and shouting. Coach wants more. Always more.
Second half, they come out swinging. We soak up pressure for a while, Amin and the back line holding firm, me tracking back more than I’d like. They get a goal back off a messy corner, and for a minute, the stadium tightens.
Two–one.
I catchAmin’s eye across the pitch. We’re not losing this.
We answer almost immediately. A quick break, three passes, Solace down the wing again. I time my run perfectly this time, ghosting in behind their defence.
The cross is perfect.
I meet it clean.
Three–one.
That’s the dagger.
The rest of the match is just control and keeping the ball, slowing the tempo, letting the clock bleed. At least that’s what Coach wants.
