I look up slowly. “No.”
The defender smirks. “It’s football.”
He meant to do it. I know he did, because they know I’d be pissed and they thought it would throw me off. I straighten and look him dead in the face. “Yeah. And you’restillshit at it.”
The ref warns us both. I walk away shaking my head, muttering under my breath.
“Watch your temper,” Amin says quietly as I pass him.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just hate being dirty.”
He snorts.
They don’t stop fouling.
By the thirtieth minute, I take another hit, this one clumsy and unnecessary. I go down harder than I need to, roll once, then push myself up before anyone can help me.
Am I breathing hard? Am I sweating?
Nah.
Air must be thin in Italy.
This lot couldn’t make me sweat if they tried. I will admit though, this is getting to me.
Halftime comes with us up one goal and in complete control.
In the tunnel, I peel my shirt off and inspect the grass stains along my side, clicking my tongue in irritation.
“Disgusting,” I mutter.
Sol laughs. “You gonna survive?”
I flip him off.
Amin leans against the wall, sipping water. “Second half, they’ll push. Stay focused.”
“I’m always focused,” I reply.
Second half starts fast.
They throw numbers forward immediately, leaving space behind them. Amin and Sol exploit it with ease, pulling them apart pass by pass.
In the fifty-third minute, Amin plays me through perfectly.
One defender lunges. Misses.
I chip the keeper clean.
Two-nil.
This time I do smile.
The crowd goes quiet in a way that feels final. I jog back, chest steady, lungs calm, mind clear.
“Captain,” I say as I pass Amin. “They’re done.”
He nods. “Finish it properly.”
