And whatever Tristan is still figuring out, I am part of it.
I have to be.
Then the eighty-first minute happens.
It’s stupid how fast a season can turn.
One second I’m driving forward on the left side with space opening in front of me, the ball at my feet, one defender angling across, another half a step too slow to close.
I push it long.
Cut inside.
Plant.
And something in my leg rips.
The pain is white.
Blinding.
Instant.
A live wire tearing straight through the back of my thigh and down into my knee so violently that my whole body forgets how to stay vertical.
I go down hard.
The stadium sound cuts weirdly, like somebody shoved cotton into my ears.
I hear myself make a sound I do not recognize.
Then I’m on the turf with my fingers dug into the grass and my vision strobing under the lights.
No.
No no no.
Not like this.
Hands are on me immediately—trainer, teammate, somebody shouting for space. I can’t fully process the words because all I can feel is the sick wrongness in my leg.
I know injuries.
I know pain.
And this—this is not cramp pain.
Not overuse pain.
Not “walk it off” pain.
This is season ending pain.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my teeth.
“Isa. Stay still.”
“I know,” I gasp, tears falling like my dreams.
