The penalty spot looked enormous.
Lucas, Greenfield's captain, placed the ball with a calmness that scared me more than anger would have. He didn't rush, didn't look nervous. He pressed the ball into the grass with both palms, as if claiming it belonged there.
The crowd behind him roared, half of them green and black, the other half in East-Bridge red and white, both sides throwing their voices like weapons.
Jamal stood on the line, gloves flexing. His chest rose and fell too fast, his lips moving in silent words I couldn't catch. Maybe a prayer. Maybe just his heartbeat out loud.
I clutched my notebook, but it was useless now. No arrows, no diagrams could change this moment. This was down to a single kick, a single boy in gloves.
I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. My chest felt like it might collapse.
Please, no. Not after all this. Not after Mike's rocket. Not after the hours of training, the sacrifices. Please, not like this.
The referee stepped forward, arm out. Silence dropped like a curtain.
His whistle cut through the air.
Lucas ran.
The world slowed.
I saw everything: the way his left arm swung wide for balance, the way Jamal twitched too early, diving left. The way the ball spun off Lucas's boot, curving high, fast, perfect.
For a split second, hope flared maybe, just maybe Jamal's fingertips could reach
THUD.
The net rippled.
1–1.
The stadium erupted. Greenfield fans leapt onto chairs, fists hammering the air, drums rattling the metal stands. Their bench exploded in celebration, substitutes spilling forward.
Our side fell silent. The red-and-white flags drooped. The parents who had been screaming themselves hoarse now stood with hands over mouths.
On the pitch, our boys looked shattered. Tariq's shoulders slumped, Noah buried his face in his jersey, and Jerome kicked at the turf in frustration.
Jamal lay on the grass for a moment, then slammed his fists down, the sound lost in the chaos.
The equalizer cut deeper than any goal should. Not just because it came so late, but because it felt cruel.
I pressed my hand to my face. Not to hide tears none came but to keep myself together. To remind myself: it wasn't over.
Because I'd seen this coming.
And I'd prepared.
---
Before the penalty, when half the team had been screaming at the referee, I'd pulled Darnell, our captain, close.
"If they score," I whispered, "we hit back immediately. No waiting. Straight from kickoff. Long to Mike. Do you understand?"
His eyes burned with determination. He nodded once.
Now, as Lucas wheeled away in triumph, Darnell sprinted back to the center circle, already signaling with his arms.
Mike stood there, fists clenched, jaw set. He looked furious, but not broken.
The referee placed the ball at midfield. My heart hammered. Now, Malik. Now or never.
---
The whistle blew again. Kickoff.
Darnell tapped it back to Noah, who barely hesitated. He launched the ball forward, a booming arc over the halfway line.
Mike was already gone.
He burst between the two Greenfield center-backs, raw power and speed. His shoulders slammed theirs aside, his stride long and hungry. The ball dropped perfectly once.
He didn't take a touch. Didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
He swung.
His right boot struck clean through leather. The sound cracked like a gunshot.
The ball screamed through the air, dipping and swerving, the keeper backpedaling desperately.
Time slowed again.
Then
BOOM.
Top corner.
Net shaking.
Goal.
For half a second, silence. The kind of silence that isn't really silence just disbelief choking every throat.
And then the eruption.
"EAAAAST-BRIDGE! EAAAAST-BRIDGE!"
Our fans lost their minds. Drums pounded, flags waved, children screamed with joy. Parents hugged strangers. It felt like the whole district had just been reborn.
On the pitch, the boys swarmed Mike. They leapt on his back, tugged his shirt, shouted his name. Mike roared louder than all of them, arms stretched wide, chest heaving like a gladiator who'd slain the beast himself.
2–1.
From the bench, my knees buckled. I bent over, hands on thighs, laughter and disbelief bubbling out of me. "Oh my God. He actually did it. He actually did it."
But it wasn't over.
Not yet.
---
The four added minutes, was hell for both team.
Greenfield threw everything forward, desperate. Their captain stormed into our box with every attack, crosses raining like artillery fire. Our boys held on by fingernails.
Jamal tipped one shot over the bar with his fingertips. Tariq blocked another with his face, staggering but refusing to drop. Jerome tracked back fifty yards, lungs on fire, to poke the ball clear.
On the sideline, I was hoarse, screaming myself raw. "Compact! Stay compact! Nothing wide! Clear your lines!"
Every clearance felt like a reprieve. Every second like a victory.
I thought my heart would stop.
Greenfield pressed again. Cross. Header. Over the bar.
Goal kick. Jamal placed the ball, taking his time.
The referee's whistle touched his lips.
One long blast.
Full time.
2–1.
East-Bridge were through.
---
The boys collapsed where they stood. Some laughed. Some cried. Some just lay on the grass staring at the sky.
Mike, for once, didn't gloat. He simply raised one fist toward the stands, his face set in triumph. Our fans roared back his name, over and over, until it felt like the whole town was chanting with them.
I dropped onto the bench, head in my hands, a laugh tearing free from somewhere deep inside me.
We'd done it. Again.
Riverside wasn't a fluke.
We were here.
We belonged.