The world is mine.
I don’t sayit out loud. I don’t need to.
The certainty sits in my chest as my boots press into the grass, as I roll my shoulders loose and glance around the stadium like I own the place.
Italy knows football.
The crowd is loud, aggressive, confident in a way that only comes from believing history will save you. They chant in waves, banners held high, flares already burning somewhere in the stands even though kickoff hasn’t happened yet.
The pitch is perfect. Trimmed short and watered heavily.
They say this is for charity but they really want a good game. They want a show.
So do we.
Amin stands a few yards ahead of me, captain armband snug around his bicep, calm like he always is. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t need to.
When Amin speaks, people listen.
“Stay sharp,” he says, glancing back at Sol and me. “They’re going to test us early.”
Sol grins. “Let them.”
I just nod, eyes scanning the opposing side as they line up. I wish I could say I feel nostalgic, or that seeing them churns up emotions in my stomach, but all I have is indifference. The media pushed this as a big deal, a reunion between teams, but honestly I don’t remember any of them.
ExceptSalvatore “Tore” Moretti.
An Italian striker who thinks he’s clever because he’s got quick feet and a mouth that won’t shut.
The one they brought in to ‘replace’ me. He was making waves before this team, but adding him gave them something I couldn’t,confidence. He keeps looking at me.
I smile first and he blows a kiss.
Oh, I can’t wait to fuck them up.
The whistle goes.
From the opening seconds, I know they’re in trouble.
The ball moves clean under my feet.
The pitch feels fast but controlled, exactly how I like it. Amin drops into space and dictates immediately, pulling defenders toward him and opening lanes without even touching the ball.
They try to close me down early.
Two men on me within the first five seconds.NPCs(Shout out to Frankie for telling me what that is)
I let one come in too close, roll my shoulder through him, and nutmeg the ball past the other without breaking stride.
I hear a sharp shout behind me as one of them goes down.
“Careful, number nine,” their midfielder snaps.
I glance back while still moving, passing it to Amin. “Or what?”
Sol laughs behind me.
They foul Amin in the seventh minute.
