He shrugs a shoulder. “Saylor texted me. Said to tell you one hundred twenty-four. That’s all I know.”
“What is that? Some sort of code?”
Beck shrugs again, then jogs back to his position.
I continue my trek toward the goal, puzzling over the three numbers until I reach the box and snap into match mode. We’re winning by one goal, a bullet by Beck, and I haven’t allowed any attempts in. A shutout is the exact statement I’m hoping to make to mark my return, and it will only happen if I remain focused. Ludlin is our main rival for a reason, and Nübel will be hard to get another ball by.
Play resumes for the second half. Ludlin is aggressive from the start, angry about Beck’s goal and anxious to even the tally. I block shot after shot, including a header off the corner kick that nearly slips past me. It’s not until I’m sipping some water, waiting for Ludlin’s trainers to finish talking with one of their players who was tripped during a battle for the ball, that my gaze drifts off the field and into the stands.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of my return after my announcement. Had I not shared that I was only playing in Kluvberg for one more season, I would have known what to expect. I was surprised—humbled—by the standing ovation fans greeted me with, even knowing my time on this field was limited. I want to repay that unwavering support with a win.
But I’m not paying attention to the crowd right now. I’m staring at the101visible at the top of the section to my immediate right, visible now that most of the spectators are seated.
I whirl to the left when the Ludlin player stands and the crowd applauds politely. And there it is—section124.
I start systematically scanning faces, aware I have seconds until play resumes and my attention needs to be elsewhere.
I hear the whistle and have to glance away before I make it through more than a couple of rows.
I’m tested right away—by the same striker who was lying on the turf. I hold the save, since another Ludlin player is too close for a rebound opportunity. Pass the ball to a teammate. The urge to look left is a persistent itch I can’t scratch. The ball barely makes it to midfield before Ludlin is attacking again, a hasty steal ending with another accurate shot I save. This time, I can’t hold the rebound, and it bounces off my left glove into the danger zone.
It’s a rush.
The screaming crowd—our charity matches are typically well attended, but this is the first time one has sold out.
The short stretch of turf that separates me and the Ludlin player—Günter—who’s dribbling around, looking for an opening.
The mounting pressure—knowing I’m the one who will determine if they gain a goal.
Günter is focused on my right side. He knows about my shoulder and that today is the first test in a full match. He’s waiting—hoping—I’ll falter.
Günter glances at a fellow midfield. It’s Konstantin Auer, an Austrian midfielder who just joined the league and is being hailed as the next Adler Beck.
“I’m still fucking playing,” Beck snapped when that comparison was mentioned in our locker room earlier.
Günter’s focused; Auer is arrogant. He traps the pass from his teammate easily, then approaches me with the inflated confidence of a player who’s accustomed to being the best on the field.
I know that confidence. I had that confidence when I signed with FC Kluvberg. A near decade ago, which feels far more recent. Now, I have that confidence and the experience to back it up.
Auer fakes left, then shoots right.
I make the save, then watch my teammates carry it up the field. One attempt, which Nübel keeps out, and then it’s coming back to me. I think it enters offsides, but the linesman doesn’t raise his flag, so I refocus on the approaching ball, waiting for the kick. It comes sooner than I expected, Günter not waiting to pass this time. I physically can’t get to the far end of the goal in time. My right shoulder collides with the goalpost, my momentum too fast, and I hold my breath, waiting for pain to hit. When nothing except a slight throb appears, I exhale,straightening. Glance at the Kluvberg bench, where Wagner is already talking to a referee. He’s challenging the goal.
I roll my shoulder, stretch, and rub the spot on my arm that collided with the post, which will likely bruise, as I wait for the verdict after the review. Resume searching the stands, glancing over each face.
Sieg Stadium seats seventy thousand. There must be a few hundred people in that section.
She’s halfway up, seated in the center of an aisle, wearing a Kluvberg jersey.
I stare, blinking rapidly, not sure if I’m hallucinating or not. There’s no way that Claire could be here, right? I don’t know what coverage yesterday’s press conference got in the States, but the Siege coming up probably means Boston will cover it some.
Claire isn’t looking this way. She’s focused on the officials, along with the rest of the stadium, waiting for the final call. Only eleven minutes remain in regulation time. And if this goal stands, we’re no longer winning.
Offsides is the verdict. No goal.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, my focus sharpening to a razor’s edge. I wanted to win before I realized she was here. Now that I know she is, losing isn’t an option.
Four minutes later, Will scores off a pass from a throw-in.
