The referee's whistle sliced through the air, sharp and clean, like the first crack of thunder before a storm. My heart jolted in response, not from surprise, but from the pure surge of adrenaline that came with it. We were already moving before the sound had faded — a ripple of motion spreading from our backline to the front, everyone bursting into their lanes, scanning for their first touch.
The grass seemed brighter now, slick from the faint drizzle that had fallen during halftime, the floodlights overhead making each blade glisten like glass. I inhaled deeply. The scent of wet earth mixed with the chemical tang of turf paint filled my lungs. My boots felt heavier than before, the studs digging deeper into the softened ground, but my legs were buzzing — not tired, not sluggish, just loaded, like springs wound too tight.
