I gazed at the stadium as it popped into view on the horizon, a heavy weight in my stomach.

Beside me, a low murmur rippled through the air as Mum spoke. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, rubbing gently before pulling me close to press a warm kiss against the top of my head. I didn't look at her mouth to read the words; I just let the heavy vibration of her voice ground me for a split second.

I gulped, straightening up as the Lamborghini smoothly glided into the stadium car park. Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to square my shoulders. Nausea rose up my throat, even though I couldn't remember having eaten anything to cause the unease. I reached for my water bottle for the seventh time in the car ride and sipped slowly. I was on track with my hydration schedule; it didn't make sense that my throat kept getting dry regardless. 

Mum's voice hummed again, a muffled, watery cadence in the quiet interior of the car. She reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing my fingers tightly as Bishop, the driver, climbed out of the driver's seat to open our door.

The moment my trainers hit the hard concrete, the noise hit me—not words, just a chaotic, roaring wave of high-frequency static and shouts. The reporters swarmed forward, their camera lenses thrusting over the barriers like weapons. Mum's security immediately sprang into action, forming a wall of black suits to usher us into the stadium tunnel. I looked up to see her pursing her lips.

I reached for my phone once we were inside the concrete hallway, opening up my notes about SS Ambrosiana.

Striker: Moretti, #9

Ultra aggressive, overdribbles, show-off.
Left-footed
weak on right
high interception probability

My file on Moretti was longer than my file on anyone else in their squad. Which made sense, since he was their most dangerous player and therefore warranted the most study. 

Predictable
won't pass near penalty box
will try for long shots

Keeper: Rossi, #1

Rigid posture, won't be able to move fast enough

CM: Fernandez, #8

Right/left, equal momentum.
Deep-lying, rarely advances past the halfway line.
Good read on pass interception
poor passing accuracy (75%)

My Mum tapped me on the shoulder, and I glanced up at her. She had applied the floral, powdery, soapy jasmine perfume I presented to her on her last birthday today. It made a smile break on my face before I could stop it, however, she didn't seem to share my sentiment as her eyes scanned something behind me.

Her mouth moved in a soft, exaggerated rhythm against the quiet.

'Are you alright, love?' I read the shape of her lips instantly. She had said the words thousands of times before. She kissed my forehead, her slender fingers caressing my face. I gave her a small, tight nod. I pulled my duffel bag closer, the charms on it jingling in a very soft vibration that I wouldn't have felt if I hadn't already expected it. I made my way down to the home dressing rooms, fixing my gaze on the appendix I had built.

SS Ambrosiana relied heavily on Moretti to score the finishing shot; if we could manage to hold him off—which could be a problem considering his height—we could choke out their offense. Their defense, according to my notes, had many holes that could be easily exploited.
Their 4-3-3 formation was hardly watertight when half their team, save for two defenders, stayed near their penalty box. One lobbed ball from me at a 75-degree angle would make it past their clumsy midfield.

I was aware of the loud chatter coming from inside the dressing room that had been assigned to Kingsley. I pushed the door open and made my way to a spare locker at the very end. Silence fell almost immediately.

Coach Hart walked straight over to me. He tapped the face of his wristwatch, his eyebrows drawn together in a sharp, universal 'What?' gesture.

I tied the laces of my boots slowly and straightened up, furrowing my eyebrows in question. What did he mean by that gesture? The match would start in ten minutes, and we had already finished our last strategy conversation yesterday afternoon.

I shrugged.

He clenched his jaw, his palms flat on his waist, elbows folded before he sighed.
Fifteen minutes later, we stood lined up in the narrow concrete tunnel. I deliberately stayed at the very back of the queue, studying the Italian players one by one.

Luca Moretti, standing a few feet away from me, towered easily over the rest of the team. I studied his broad shoulders and puffed-out chest. He was talking animatedly to Fernandez, who had his arms crossed in front, nodding. I tried to read Moretti's words, but they were... nonsense. His lips moved in a way that seemed to form words I knew, but somehow didn't make sense in context.

Fernandez's eyes met mine and he nudged Moretti, who immediately followed his gaze.
Moretti's mouth moved again, shorter this time, and Fernandez grinned and burst out laughing. Possibly an intimidation tactic. I kept staring at him for a little longer than necessary. But there was nothing in the shape of his mouth that would help me at the whistle. 

I looked away from him as we jogged out onto the pitch. It was humid today. 75% chance of precipitation. The grass was dewy from last night; friction would be important in trying to make a break for the penalty box.

Reaching up, I carefully clicked the volume wheel on my hearing aid, lowering it until the world faded into a dull, safe hum. I pulled my thick elastic headband over it, fixing the plastic device securely in place against my skull so it wouldn't dislodge during a header.

The fresh, crisp scent of the grass offered a brief wave of comfort. I glanced up to the stands, where Mum was now clapping her hands together, the pale afternoon sun reflecting off her oversized sunglasses.

I waved at her, making a mental note to personally talk to her stylist about her choice of accessories. I fixed my gaze back on the ball in the centre of the pitch, jumping a few times to try and get my legs to warm up. Their formation was the same as last year, making them extremely predictable. As I scanned the field, however, my eyes fell on the few reporters clustered at the front of the stands.

The referee's whistle blew, but to me, it was just a sharp, tiny tremor vibrating down through my shins from the pitch.

Instantly, the match erupted into a blur of motion. The mess of noise from my team, theirs, the referee's calls, and the stands blew up to a deafening din that I had absolutely no control over. I paused for a split second, but there was no more time; I forced myself to focus entirely on the ball as it kicked off.

I tried not to suffocate under the pressure, even as every single time a teammate looked my way, the long wall of press photographers lined up near the touchline went into a total frenzy. Even with my eyes locked onto the ball, I could see the blinding white canvas of their flashbulbs exploding in
unison. It was like lightning striking over and over again, burning holes straight into my retinas.

A few minutes into play, I was aware of a sudden vibration that felt like a whistle. I stopped for half a second, dribbling the ball and wondering if the referee had called for a pause. The thing I had construed as a whistle, however, must have been something else entirely. When I glanced up, I saw a chaotic commotion in the stands—officials trying desperately to push back the overwhelming crowd of cameras leaning over the barriers.

The brief distraction ruined my rhythm. I tried to drop deep into midfield to find space, but Ambrosiana's defensive line had clearly been instructed to choke me out. An anomaly I hadn't foreseen. They had placed four defenders around me, leaving their backline completely empty. But no one else on my team was capable of the 75-degree pass I had practiced so diligently.

Ten minutes in, the ball came rocketing toward my chest from our left-back. I leaned forward to cushion it with my foot, but just as the ball arrived, their number 20, Ferrara, jumped and knocked it off before it reached me. I couldn't see well past the defenders surrounding me. It didn't make sense. If they had four people on me, my midfield was free to try and intercept the ball from theirs. And then make an easy break to the other side of the field.

Ambrosiana didn't give me a single second to try and recover the ball. They capitalized on our structure, tearing through our midfield with ruthless speed. I pelted after them. I could catch up to them in a total of seven seconds, but I wasn't sure I had that time.

I could hear our winger, Adam White, yelling from beside me, our defenders struggling to keep up with Ambrosiana as Ferrara lobbed the ball to Moretti.

I almost paused as the striker ran forward at breakneck speed, at least thirty percent higher than the last time I had seen him play. I wanted to yell at Wilson, tell him to slide tackle Moretti. But there was no way to say anything as Moretti tore through our defenders.

He cut sharply inside the penalty box and struck it clean with his right foot. His weak foot. The ball was going to curve into the top right corner. I needed to tell our keeper, Gaultier, to jump and try to use his fingers to redirect the ball. However, he leapt in the complete opposite direction as the ball settled perfectly into the top right corner of the net. 1-0.

White, our captain, said something somewhere beside me. But before we could even regroup, Ambrosiana struck again. Less than ten minutes later, a defensive error left Moretti completely unmarked at the edge of the box. He received a pass from Fernandez as I readied myself. It had high momentum, too much for it to be a simple reception. It was going to bounce near Moretti's feet and I could intercept it and swing it left toward my striker.

I watched, however, as Moretti received the ball, controlling it beautifully with his left foot. He lobbed it right over my shin, keeping possession somehow effortlessly and making it to the penalty box. The ball was on his left foot; he was going to try a low pass, he had to. Our defenders were blocking his field of view of the top of the net. If he tried another high pass, it would be intercepted or ricochet off the bar.

Low. It was going to be low, and to Gaultier's left, and Gaultier was standing too tall and too central with his weight on the wrong foot.

I opened my mouth. Nothing I could say would reach him from thirty metres out through a stadium of noise, and he was not looking at me, and there was no time to make him look at me.
Moretti drove a low, powerful shot that whizzed a good metre off our keeper's waist.
2-0.

I had known. I had known four seconds before it happened, and I had stood in the grass and watched it happen anyway.

Through the faint, muffled hum in my ears, I could feel the violent rumble of the stadium stands shaking as Ambrosiana celebrated. I forced myself to walk back toward the centre circle, my eyes fixed entirely on the white lines of the grass.