Chapter 7
1685 Words
*Gameday arrived, and the evening hung heavy and damp.*
This time it was at home. The visiting team: *Rocky Peak Academy* from Colorado. The stands hummed with nervous energy, but inside the dressing room, the air was thick with silence and muffled footsteps.
Peter sat alone on the bench, staring at his locker like it held the answers. His hands trembled. This was his first start.
Then a tap on his shoulder.
He turned. *Declan Tanner.*
Peter blinked, caught off guard. Declan shifted awkwardly.
“Hey… uhh, you got a spare pair of shin guards? I can’t find mine.”
Peter hesitated a beat, then nodded. He fumbled through his bag, pulled out the spare, and handed it over.
“Yeah… here.”
“That’s all you need?” Declan asked, immediately regretting the words. His voice dropped.
“Actually, I just wanted to—”
*“SILENCE!”*
Coach Tim’s bark cut through the room like a blade. Declan scurried back to his locker. The room went dead quiet.
“Listen up!” Tim stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes burning.
“Today, we defend our turf. They came all the way from Colorado to test us. We show them what it means to play at *Belvert!*”
The room erupted. Shouts, slaps on lockers, a roar that shook the walls.
As they filed out toward the tunnel, Declan caught up to Peter. His voice was low, almost lost in the noise.
“Peter… what I wanted to say was… good luck. You’re special. I already know it.”
Peter’s throat tightened. He couldn’t find the words. He just nodded and gave a small, stunned smile.
On the pitch, the floodlights blazed down. The crowd’s chant rolled over them like thunder.
The referee blew his whistle.
“Good evening, everyone! Matchday Two of the *MLS Future Stars Eastern Conference*. Belvert Academy here in Oklahoma take on Rocky Peak Academy from Colorado. Both teams tasted defeat last week. Tonight, someone gets their first points.”
*5th minute:* Belvert on the front foot. Preston holds off a challenge, slides it to Declan. A sweeping diagonal finds Peter at the byline. He dances past his man, cuts it back—
_No one’s there!_
A golden chance gone, and the crowd groans in agony.
*20th minute:* Still no opener. Declan lifts his head, sees Preston’s run, and launches a ball over the top.
Preston’s through…
_He buries it!_
The net ripples. The stadium explodes.
“Belvert lead! And who else but Preston, carrying last season’s form straight into this one!”
But Rocky Peak didn’t break.
*35th minute:* Captain Simon Clement picks the ball up, glides past Damon, and unleashes a rocket from 25 yards.
_BOOM._
The ball screams into the top corner.
“Clement has drawn Rocky Peak level! What a strike! The captains trading blows!”
The whistle blew for halftime.
1-1.
The dressing room was suffocating. No one met anyone’s eyes. The weight of the game sat heavy on every chest.
Then the second half began.
*50th minute:* Bradford finds Will. Quiet all game, but now he’s alive. He skates past his marker, drives to the byline, and whips it in.
Cleared. Corner.
Will plays it short to Declan, gets it back, and sends a curling cross into the box.
The keeper punches it out—straight to Peter.
He doesn’t think. He swings.
_A low, driven strike._
*GOAL!*
“BELVERT RETAKE THE LEAD! PETER! ON HIS FIRST START! WHAT A MOMENT!”
Peter froze for half a second, then sprinted toward Will, screaming. Will grabbed him, yelling,
“That’s my brother! Well done!”
Rocky Peak pushed. Clement won a free kick on the edge of the box.
He stepped up.
_Evan dives… fingertip save!_
Over the bar. The crowd roars again.
But from the corner, disaster.
Evan misjudges it. Clement taps it in from a yard out.
2-2.
15 minutes left. Both teams tasted blood but feared losing.
Then Will won it back. One glance up. One ball over the top.
Peter was running.
The keeper rushed out.
Peter dinked it past him, kept his balance, and rolled it into the empty net.
*3-2.*
“BELVERT HAVE FOUND A WAY! PETER HAS FOUND A WAY! HE MIGHT HAVE JUST WON IT!”
The final whistle blew.
“Belvert get their first win of the season! Preston opens it, Clement answers with a screamer, Peter puts them ahead again, Clement equalizes… and Peter finishes it with a moment of ice-cold brilliance. *Belvert 3, Rocky Peak 2!*”
---
In the dressing room, Peter sat in front of his locker, hands shaking, heart still pounding like a drum.
The game replayed behind his eyes—every touch, every shout, every second.
He barely heard the congratulations. He was somewhere else.
“Hey,” Coach Tim said, stepping in front of him.
“Everyone, great job out there. You left it all on that pitch.”
He turned to Peter and smiled.
“And you… Man of the Match.”
He pressed a small, cylindrical trophy into Peter’s hands.
*Player of the Match.*
The room erupted in applause.
Peter stared at the trophy, then at his teammates.
For the first time all night, he let himself believe it.
He was so, _so_ proud.
Peter’s dorm room, late at night. The hallway outside is quiet. His phone is pressed to his ear, the glow of the screen the only light besides the streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. The adrenaline from the game has faded, leaving a dull ache in his legs and chest.
The line rings twice.
“Peter? Please tell me you won. I’ve been pacing my kitchen for an hour. Mom thinks I’m insane.”
Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-terrified.
“We won. 3-2.”
He tries to sound casual. It fails. His voice cracks on the last word.
A beat of silence. Then she explodes.
“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! Peter! I’m literally screaming in my house right now. My little brother’s banging on the door.”
He leans back against the cold dorm wall, a shaky grin pulling at his mouth.
“You’re gonna wake up the whole block "
“Worth it. Tell me everything. Every second. And don’t you dare tell me you haven’t texted Nova yet."
He groans, running a hand through his hair.
“She wasn’t even at the game, Nyla. We’re not that close.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been looking for an excuse for three months.”
She laughs, light and teasing.
“Anyway. Go. I need details.”
He closes his eyes. The stadium noise comes rushing back.
“I started. First time. My legs felt like jelly for the first 10 minutes. Preston scored first, then their captain—Clement—hits this ridiculous free kick from 25 yards. It felt like we were done.”
“And you weren’t. Because you’re stubborn.”
“We went 2-1 up in the second half. I scored it. First goal for Belvert. I don’t even remember shooting. One second I’m outside the box, next second the net’s moving and Will’s hanging off me.”
He pauses, swallowing hard.
“They equalized again. I thought… I thought we’d blown it. Then Will plays this ball over the top, keeper comes out, and I just… I went around him. Rolled it in.”
“Peter.”
Her voice softens. All the teasing drops away.
“You did it. You actually did it.”
“Coach gave me Man of the Match. It’s a stupid little trophy, but…”
He looks down at the cylindrical metal on his desk.
“It feels like everything. Like all the 6 a.m. runs and the times I wanted to quit.”
“It’s not stupid. It’s proof.”
There’s a pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, steadier.
“I picked Michigan. Early decision. I got the email this morning. I’m sitting at my kitchen table right now, staring at the acceptance letter.”
The words hit him harder than the 90 minutes did.
“Michigan? Nyla… that’s… that’s huge.”
“I wanted to tell you in person. But I couldn’t wait. Political Science, Peter. University of Michigan. Ann Arbor.”
She lets out a shaky laugh.
“I’m terrified. But I kept thinking—if you can walk out there and score two goals with everyone watching, I can click ‘accept’ on a computer.”
He runs a hand through his damp hair.
“You’re gonna be insane there, Nyla. Ann Arbor’s not ready for you.”
“Only if you promise to visit. And promise you’ll stop using ‘we’re not that close’ as an excuse. I’m still your number one hype person, even if you’re slow about it.”
“I promise. And Nyla?”
“Yeah?”
“I couldn’t have done it without knowing you’d be on the phone after. You’re the one who keeps me sane.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then:
“Don’t make me cry, weirdo. My mom’s gonna hear me. Go ice your legs. And Peter… I’m proud of you. Like, stupidly proud.”
“Same. Go crush Michigan.”
They hang up.
He sits there on the edge of his bed, the trophy cold in his hand, a stupid smile he can’t wipe off his face. The room is silent now. Nyla’s voice fades, but her words stick.
_Nova_
The thought hits him harder than it should.
But he remembered.
The kiss in the stairwell after the w
Party . Two seconds, maybe three. Her hand against his jacket, his own hands frozen at his sides like an i***t. The sweet smell of flowers she smelt like.
He remembered telling nyla about her.
He picked up his phone, stared at Nova’s name. No new messages. No story from the game. She didn’t even know.
And maybe that was better.
The win felt huge a minute ago. Now it just felt loud and empty without someone who made his chest feel like that again.
- Writer
