Itisa massive surprise when Mackenzie kicks the ball past the defender blocking her…straight at me.
Nothing’s a blur. Nothing slows down. The biggest moment of my career—of my life—and time ticks along like everything’s normal and nothing unusual is taking place.
I’ve got the shot. A clear view of the net. I track the trajectory with my eyes, the din of eighty thousand fans fading into white noise as I aim all my focus at the open stretch of net.
Australia’s goalie is ready. She’s been practically perfect tonight.
Is he watching on television? Does he care that much at least?
I grit my teeth, plant my left foot, and swing my right.
The ball hurtles toward the net. It’s an accurate kick, but it’s not flying as high or as fast as I know my foot is capable of.
My big moment—the shot that matters more than any other I’ve ever taken—and I know, even before her yellow glove connects with the ball, that it won’t get past the goalie.
A collective loud groan echoes through the spectators sporting red, white, and blue. The disappointment is palpable in the air, an acrid taste coating my tongue.
I want to collapse on the turf right there. Dismay sinks down to my very marrow. My muscles, trained to perform for hours, quiver with the simple effort of staying upright.
But the game isn’t over. Not officially at least.
I race back to our zone with a boulder of depression and disbelief strapped to my chest. That wasn’t a miraculous save or an awkward angle. I should have made that shot. And if I had, we’d be winning.
Australia’s pressing harder, energized by my failed attempt.
Thirty seconds later, the officials add three minutes to the clock.
Three minutes.
One hundred eighty seconds.
“Chin up, Caldwell,” Saylor says, jogging past.
I nod an acknowledgment I’m not sure she sees, desperately fighting the sinking sensation in my chest.
It’s not over yet, but it feels over. Or maybe I’m just projecting the helplessness I’m experiencing. The whole world is tinted gray by my melancholia.
A little over two minutes later, Australia scores.
Another forty-five seconds pass, followed by the blow of the final whistle. That high-pitched tweet sounds so final.
The end of this match.
The end of the Olympics.
The end of Paris.
The end of me and Otto.
The end.
32
OTTO
“What about this place?” Saylor says, nodding toward a wooden sign swaying ahead.
“Good with me,” Beck replies. “Berger?”
