The stadium lights glare down, bright and unforgiving, but I don’t care. The noise from the crowd is deafening—cheers, screams, and gasps rising in waves as the seconds tick down. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat drumming in time with the rhythm of my feet pounding the turf.
I see the shot open before me—Ford’s quick pass cutting through the defense, the ball coming straight to me. The pressure is thick, a knot tightening in my gut, but this is it. This is the moment I’ve been grinding for. No second-guessing. No hesitation. Just me and the goal.
The clock is winding down—four seconds, three—and my stick connects with the ball, launching it into the air like a bullet. The shot hums off the mesh, slicing through space toward the top left corner of the net.
The goalie dives—but he’s too slow. The ball slams into the net with a solid, satisfyingthwap.
The horn blares.
We win.
For a moment, it doesn’t feel real. The world slows, my lungs burning, legs shaking. The field is a blur of blue and white as my teammates erupt into cheers.
And then Jacob is charging toward me, yelling like a madman. “You did it, Pickle!”
“I love you, Jacob!”
Before I can brace myself, his arms are around me, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. I laugh, breathless and exhilarated, the sound catching somewhere between a sob and a shout.
Ford barrels in right after, almost knocking Jacob over. “You’re a goddamn legend!” he exclaims, spinning me around in circles until I’m dizzy.
I’m vaguely aware of the rest of the team swarming around us, hands clapping my shoulders, pats on the back, and fists bumping against mine.
“You nailed it, Murphy!”
“Clutch as hell!”
"Keep it up for the season!"
Their words wrap around me, and I soak them in, heart full to bursting. It’s not just that I made the shot. It’s what it means. I didn’t just prove myself to them—I proved it to every single person who said I didn’t belong. To every doubter, every whisper that I’d slow the team down, every sneer that said I didn’t have what it takes.
And now? Now, they’re all eating their words.
Except there’s one person who hasn’t said a word yet—Patrick.
I catch his eyes across the field, and the look he gives me is unreadable. For a second, I think maybe—just maybe—he’ll come around. But instead, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the locker room, his shoulders stiff with irritation.
Ford follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about him. That dude’s got a stick up his ass.”
Jacob snorts. “Yeah, no one’s gonna miss him if he keeps acting like that.”
As the celebration fades, the team drifts toward the sidelines, the promise of the locker room pulling us forward. Matthew drapes an arm across my shoulders as we walk. “You killed it out there.”
“I had to.” I flash him a grin, but my heart still races beneath it. “No way I was letting anyone say I couldn’t hang with the guys.”
He bumps his hip against mine, his voice playful. “You didn’t just hang—you ran the damn show.”
The locker room smells like sweat, turf, and the sharp bite of liniment cream. Normally, the scent would make me gag, but right now, it smells like victory.
I peel off my helmet and run a hand through my damp hair, savoring the relief of finally being able to breathe without the mask pressing against my face. Ford and Jacob are right behind me, still riding the high of the win.
A group of our teammates stands awkwardly near my locker—guys who, up until now, have been the loudest voices against me being on the team. Their faces are tight with something that looks like discomfort... but also respect.
Kevin clears his throat. “Uh, Murphy... I just wanna say—" He pauses, looking genuinely uncomfortable. "We were wrong—about you. You’ve got what it takes. You proved it today.”
Lance nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d pull it off, but... you did. Respect.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. It’s not exactly a heartfelt apology, but it’s a start. And right now, I’ll take it.
