But Amin, Sol, and I ain’t built like that.
I’m not content with that.
After all, Francine could be watching.
We exchange one look across the pitch, and that’s all it takes. Amin drops a shoulder, Sol drifts wider, and I start creeping forward like I’ve got somewhere better to be.
They think we’re settling.
We’re not.
Amin picks the ball up deep in midfield, shaking off a challenge like it’s nothing. Instead of recycling it back, he turns, head up, already scanning.
I make the run.
Sol spots it at the same time and darts into space, dragging a defender with him. The back line hesitates, unsure who to track, and that half-second is all Amin needs.
He sends a laser of a pass straight through the middle.
I take it in stride, chesting it down, the ball dropping perfectly in front of me. One defender lunges.
I skip past him.
Another tries to clip my heel.
Misses.
The keeper comes out fast, trying to make himself big.
I don’t even slow down. I slot it past him, clean and low, and watch it roll into the net like it was always meant to be there.
Four–one.
The final whistlecuts through the air.
For half a second, nobody moves. Then the stadium erupts.
Sound slams into me from every direction—cheers, shouting, the deep rumble of thousands of people on their feet. The scoreboard flashes the final score in blinding white, and it takes my brain a moment to catch up to what my body already knows.
We won.
Not just scraped by.
We dominated.
Amin barrels into me first, wrapping me in a headlock that nearly takes my head clean off.
“You madman!” he yells. “Did you see that last run? You killed them!”
I’m laughing before I even realize it, adrenaline buzzing through every inch of me. Sweat drips down my temples, mychest heaving, legs still twitching like I could sprint another mile if someone told me to.
Solace jogs over with the rest of the team, crashes into us, hands slapping backs, shouts overlapping, someone screaming about drinks later.
We walk toward the sideline together to shake hands with the other team, the roar of the crowd following us. Fans lean over the railings, waving shirts, holding up phones, shouting my name.
“TITAN!”
I lift a hand, half-wave, half-salute. The balaclava isn’t allowed on the pitch, so they get my face instead.
