Wembley shone under the rain, and the noise rolled in sheets, and David Drinkwater stood on the touchline with his bib in his hands.
He was thirty-seven, and his calves carried every airport gate and every medical he had ever walked through, yet his eyes were clear.
The fourth official raised the board, and the red numbers flashed, and the commentator lifted his voice.
"Change for Millwall," he said, and the co-commentator added, "Fresh legs for the last corner," while the camera followed David toward the edge of the box.
The screen caught the scoreboard as it glowed above the east stand, and the digits held steady.
Millwall 2 — Norwich City 2.
90:02.
It was the Championship play-off final, and promotion waited on one ball, and everyone in the ground felt it.
"Come on," the gaffer shouted as he pointed to the far post, and David nodded because the message was simple.
He took his run-up slowly, and the rain pecked his face, and his shirt clung to him as if it knew the story as well as he did.
Fiorentina had cut him at seventeen, and Genoa had tested him then turned away, and the years after that became a map of transfers rather than a career.
Spain, and Italy, and France, and then England again, and the memes followed him to each stop because strangers liked the joke.
They called him a club whore, and the clip ran under every highlight he failed to make, yet he saved the screenshots because one day he wanted proof.
"Corner to Millwall," the commentator said as Ayo Balogun placed the ball, and the away end held its breath.
Norwich squeezed the six-yard line, and their keeper barked orders, and their captain tugged at David's arm because he did not want him free.
The fourth official showed three added minutes, and the stadium reacted like a living thing, and the chant came down from the stands in a single lift.
"Lions, Lions."
David backed away two steps, and he counted under his breath, and he felt the line open because the near-post decoy dragged two with him.
The whistle cut the air, and Balogun started his run, and the ball left his boot with a flat spin that fought the wind.
David went late, and he went hard, and he broke across the six while the captain lost him for one heartbeat.
He leapt, and the contact thudded through his skull, and he sent the header down and away from the keeper's hands.
The net rippled, and Wembley erupted, and the commentator's voice cracked as he reached for the call.
"He has done it," he shouted, and the co-commentator shouted with him, "Millwall lead by three-two, and they are minutes from the Premier League."
David turned for the corner flag, and he sprinted with his arms wide, and his teammates came after him in a blue wave.
He took one step, and then another, and the floodlights smeared as if the night had moved, and the edges of the world drew in.
He blinked because he wanted the picture to sharpen, yet the blur deepened, and the pitch tilted, and the white paint slid beneath his boots.
He kept running because joy does not check the body first, yet his knees softened, and his breath snagged, and the grass rushed up.
He fell, and the turf slapped his cheek, and cold soaked through his shirt while the noise surged and broke and surged again.
"Medics," someone shouted as boots skidded and stopped beside him.
Hands rolled him onto his back, and a voice asked for space, and the referee waved the physios through as the stretcher rattled on its wheels.
The camera cut to the scoreboard, and it burned against the rain, and the numbers did not move.
Millwall 3 — Norwich City 2.
90:45.
"Stay with me," the captain said as fingers tapped David's jaw, and the physio slid an arm under his neck, and the second physio counted.
"One, two, three," he said as compressions began, and the sound of the crowd thinned like it was being pulled away, and the siren outside the stadium started to cry.
David looked past the faces to the roofline because the rest of the world shook, and he tried to speak because there were things he had never said.
He wanted to tell them that the game had always been inside him, and he wanted to tell them that he had kept every cruel word because he needed fuel, and he wanted to tell them that the joke could end now.
His chest ached in a tight circle, and his arms felt light, and rain dotted his lips as if the sky had leaned close to listen.
He thought of Florence, and he thought of Genoa, and he thought of every badge that never felt like home.
He thought of the screenshot folder, and he thought of the clip, and he imagined tapping the scoreboard with one finger so the world could see the number and fall quiet.
The floodlights bloomed wider, and the colour ran at the edges, and a thin light stitched itself across the sky.
Text formed where no text should be, and it hovered in that light, and it stayed even when his eyes tried to close.
「Host found: David Drinkwater」
「… Synchronising 1, 2, 3, 4…」
The siren cut closer, and the stretcher bumped his boot, and the captain said his name again because he wanted it to anchor him.
David watched the scoreboard one last time, and he let the number settle inside him, and he let the darkness come because the darkness was already there.
A/N
Hey everyone, this is a reupload of MY Ultimate Gacha System; the last version was rejected, so I had to start fresh and I've made some changes to the storyline. Please bear with me and support the series while I stabilize the chapters and schedule; thank you for reading.