Chapter 21 - Just Inches
—
Minute 44.
The ball landed at Nathan's feet with a soft thud — a crisp counterattack from Leeds, quick as lightning, had unraveled Norwich's midfield.
The stadium held its breath.
He had space… barely.
Three defenders in front of him. All closing in. All hungry.
But his heart beat louder than the roar in the stands, louder than the voices yelling for him to pass, to be safe.
It whispered only one thing:
"This one's yours."
He went for it.
First touch — a heel drag behind his standing foot.
Second — a full spin, low and sharp like a dancer cutting through rain.
Third — the ball kissed the outside of his boot, then—
Slick!
CRACK! — Elastico! A sharp snap of the ankle, a blur of motion.
He was through the first man.
The second lunged — too slow. Nathan slipped past with a shimmy.
The third… tried to shoulder him off. Big mistake.
Boom! — a feint and a hard plant of the left foot.
The defender lost balance, stumbled, then collapsed backward like a sack of bricks.
"OOOOHHHH!!" The fans rose in waves, the whole stadium shaking with disbelief.
The pitch opened up before him. Green space. A direct line to the box.
Nathan didn't stop.
Not now.
He cut inside, one stride from the penalty arc — let the ball bounce once — then unleashed a shot with venom.
CRACK!!
It flew like a missile.
The keeper didn't even move.
The entire crowd tilted forward…
The ball sliced through the air…
…and missed.
Just wide.
A hiss of disappointment swept through Elland Road.
Nathan stood frozen, shoulders rising and falling, steam puffing from his mouth like smoke from a storm-tossed engine.
"Why'd you go solo?!" someone shouted behind him.
"You could've passed that!"
But another voice cut through, loud and proud.
"That deserved a goal, honestly!" Marco yelled from midfield, hands on his hips, eyes gleaming. "That was filth!"
Nathan didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the goal — not the net, but the tiny spot by the post where the ball had kissed the air and escaped glory.
So close.
So close.
—
Half-time came.
Leeds jogged into the tunnel, heads down. No laughter. No words.
Grayson said nothing as they entered the changing room. He just stood with his arms crossed, watching them.
Nathan sat down. Untied, retied his boots. Fiddled with the tape on his wrist. Stared at the floor.
It wasn't guilt. It wasn't regret.
It was something sharper.
This isn't over.
Not even close.
—
Second half.
Kickoff.
But something had changed.
Norwich slowed everything down. Took their time on throws. Walked between set pieces. Their keeper held every ball until the ref threatened a card.
The fans started groaning.
Leeds pressed forward, again and again. But it was rushed. Forced. The shape was wrong. Midfield looked disjointed — passes too long or too short, players waiting instead of moving.
Marco yelled out, trying to organize the lines.
"Shift left! Tyler, drop in! Jamal, press higher!"
But it was like shouting into the wind.
By minute 67, Grayson was pacing the sideline like a caged wolf, pulling his beanie off, putting it back on.
The crowd's frustration built.
Every blocked cross earned a groan.
Every slow Norwich substitution drew loud boos.
By minute 70, it felt like the match was slipping through their fingers.
Then—
Minute 74.
It started with a simple one-two at the halfway line.
Leeds midfielder Rory Price chipped a sudden pass forward — delicate, precise.
Tyler Brown broke the offside trap with a burst of speed.
One touch.
Two.
Then — the perfect through ball, sliding like silk across the damp grass.
Nathan exploded into space.
The defense collapsed late. Too late.
He was free.
The stadium leapt to its feet as one.
Nathan touched the ball forward. One bounce. Then another.
The keeper charged out.
Nathan didn't blink.
Flick! — a fake shot, then a sharp chop inside.
The keeper lunged—
Nathan glided past, ice-cold, body balanced on the knife-edge of perfection.
"He's past the keeper!!"
the commentator's voice cracked with excitement.
The angle was tight. The goal was open.
One shot.
One finish.
He struck it low, clean—
CRACK!
The ball rose… too much…
And SLAMMED off the crossbar.
CLANG!
The stadium went dead silent.
No groans.
No gasps.
Just silence.
The ball bounced back into play, cleared in a panic by a Norwich defender.
Nathan stood still, hands on his head, eyes wide.
Disbelief.
No. No. No. That didn't just happen.
"Unbelievable…" the commentator muttered, voice quiet now. "It was easier to score than miss."
Coach Grayson bowed his head on the sideline, lips pressed tight.
Marco turned away, hand over his mouth, shaking it off. "Tch…"
Even the Norwich players looked stunned.
Nathan walked slowly back, alone.
The crowd tried to lift him.
Some clapped.
Others chanted his name, low at first, then louder.
But he couldn't hear it.
The echo of the bar still rang in his ears like a cruel joke.
He replayed the moment.
The angle.
The keeper.
The shot.
It was right. Everything felt right.
So why?
Why didn't it go in?
He closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose.
Then — a voice.
Quiet. Behind him.
Marco.
"You didn't choke, mate," he said. "You played it perfectly. It just… didn't go in."