“Get him the fu—” Gavin catches himself, his jaw clenching. “Get him off this pitch,” he says, pointing at the defender. “Or this game is over. We’ll walk right off.”
Coach is out on the field now, walking as fast as her extremely pregnant body allows her, followed by Rico and Jas. The other team’s coach comes out, too.
The refs turn toward me. Ask me to corroborate. I won’t say the word. I won’t dignify that hatred by repeating it. But I nod when they say it, asking if that’s what was directed at me.
And then I feel it. Those bands narrowing around my ribs. My hands turning numb. My heart rate accelerating faster than Gavin’s car as he gunned it down the road this morning and got us to the stadium. I sway as I start to lose feeling in my legs.
“Hey.” Gavin’s there, gripping my arm, tugging me toward him. “You’re all right.”
I shake my head. My knees buckle.
“Fuck, Oliver. Breathe.” He tugs me closer, holding me tight. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His head snaps up as he looks toward the team. “Oi!”
The world’s swimming, its sounds reduced to my too-fast tugs of air, my heart pounding in my ears, but I see them—first Santi, then Ben, Ethan, Carlo, Andre, even Amobi, who bolts down the field—everyone circling around us, boxing us in.
You’d think being swarmed by the team roster when I’m hyperventilating would make things worse. But it’s just like the tight embrace Gavin wraps me in, pinning my head against his shoulder—it grounds me, comforts me, shields me.
“Breathe,” he says quietly, his hand heavy on my back.
As my breaths become less frantic, I hear what I couldn’t before, Santi muttering under his breath, praying maybe, encouraging me, perhaps both—soft, whispered Spanish. Carlo’s Portuguese drifts on the air, blending with Andre’s French. Ben wraps an arm around Ethan and Amobi, shouldering out a videographer, sealing us off.
“You got this, Oliver.”
“We’re here.”
The team’s words, some in English, some not, are quiet, peaceful, their presence steadying. “Gav,” I whisper.
“What do you need?” he says, hand pressing on my back.
I can’t answer him. I just need to know he’s there, to feel him grounding me to Earth.
“Focus on my breaths, Oliver. Breathe when I do.”
“Trying.” I lick my dry lips. “Talk?”
He clears his throat. “Coach is going to murder someone. She is an eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant fury, and the ref is about to shit himself.”
I feel a faint smile tug at my mouth. I suck in a breath of air that feels deeper, a little slower, not shallow and dizzying. “More.”
“Listen,” he says. “You can hear her.”
“I don’t give a damn what that playback video does or does not show you,” Coach growls at the other team’s coach. “Your player used a slur on one of mine, which means he’s out. You’re better than this and your team should be, too. Zero tolerance.”
As we both listen to Coach obliterating the weak placations of our opponent’s coach, I feel Gavin’s anger, like a banked fire, waiting for fresh oxygen to send it roaring to life. I feel his control, the way he steadies himself for me, holding me tight.
“Damn right,” Coach says after a stretch of conversation between the refs and the other coach that I couldn’t hear. “Hayes!”
Gavin hesitates.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, shakily stepping back. I can feel my hands. My legs aren’t solid, but I can stand on my own. The team’s there for me to turn to, still reassuringly close.
Gavin glances from me to Coach, torn.
“Go,” I tell him.
He strides off, furious yet controlled. He exchanges brief words with the ref and both teams’ coaches, then watches the defender, who’s walked off the field after being given his red card. And then Gavin receives a yellow for the well-deserved shove he doled out with a blank expression and a curt nod.
I lower to a crouch, feeling blood flow back into my brain, dispelling the dizziness, the punching stars in my vision. Jas steps in, crouching too, their dark eyes meeting mine, tight with concern. “Okay, Bergman?”
Drawing in a deep breath, I realize that I am, somehow. That what just happened for the first time in front of my teammates somehow feels like it had less power over me because it happened in front of them, because they stood by me and protected me when I was at my most vulnerable.
I knuckle away a single tear that’s formed in the corner of my eye, nodding.
Jas stands and offers their hand, which I clasp and let them use to haul me upright. “Yeah,” I tell them, feeling sureness fill me up and strengthen my voice. “I am.”
“Bergman.” Coach sets her hand gently on my back, looking up at me, her eyes tight with fury and hurt. “I’m sorry.”
I force a smile. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Gavin’s beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. I wish so badly right in this moment I could slip my hand inside his, that he could hold it tight.
“We don’t have to finish this game,” he says, looking at Coach but saying this for my benefit. Clearly they’ve discussed this. “We can walk off this field right now.”
I glance out at the clock, seeing it dwindle toward the ninety-minute mark, mentally adding at least five minutes of stoppage time. Then I look out at my teammates, at that wide-open goal calling my name.
“I want to finish it,” I tell them. “I feel a little shaky, but it’ll feel good to move again, run through it, end strong. He got kicked off.” I nod toward the other end of the field where the defender walked out. “That’s enough for me.”
“And he’ll be getting slapped with a fine,” Coach tells me.
Gavin’s staring at me, eyes tight. “You sure?”
I nod, glancing out across the field. I want to get out there and score, not just tie it up, but win. Not because I have anything to prove in light of the hatred I experienced today; their bigotry isn’t my burden to bear. I want to win this game because I believe it’s possible, because I believe in myself, because right here, right now, pouring everything I have into this game, is exactly where I want to be.
After convening with the refs, Gavin and I pull the team together. I glance up at the clock, seeing five minutes of added stoppage time, just like I thought. As the ref walks toward me with the ball, Gavin stares past me, eyes dark, expression unreadable. I feel anger rolling off him in waves. Following his line of sight, I catch another player on the team giving me a nasty look. Clearly, he thinks his teammate was treated unfairly.
I flash him my widest smile, then happily accept the ball from the ref.
The next four minutes are an exercise in frustration. My opponent’s defenders double-team me like they have all through the game, and now they’re trying to rough me up—emphasis on, trying to. There’s a real upside to being six-three and a hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle; I don’t really budge.
We’re still down one, and I’m so hungry to score, it’s like a fire in blood.
As a foul’s called on the other team, I run up as high in the field as I can while staying onside, watching the clock, knowing at any minute they might blow the whistle.
That’s when I feel it, the weight of Gavin’s gaze on me. Peering up, I meet his eyes and try to make some kind of sense of his thunderous expression. I can see that vein in his temple pulsing from here, and as the whistle blows, as he takes that very first touch on the ball, I know something’s different. It’s like traveling back in time, seeing a player I haven’t since before I became a professional myself. Gavin flies. Moving with the ball in a burst of speed, footwork so fast it’s a blur, he burns through the midfield. I drop deep and wide, clearing space for him, mindful to stay onside.
Tearing down the field, he heads straight for the defender who gave me the nasty look when we resumed play, who’s kept his mouth shut but made it clear with how many times he keeps stepping on my foot and throwing an elbow that he’s trying to make me miserable.
The guy lunges as Gavin cuts with the ball, leaving his legs splayed, and Gavin deftly slips the ball right through his legs. He’s nutmegged him. The stadium’s chanting, screaming, losing their collective shit at what they’re seeing.
My heart’s in my throat, my pulse pounding, as Gavin steps around the defender he’s just embarrassed and made fall on his ass. On his first touch, he sends the ball arcing through the air straight to me. I sprint toward it, knowing it’s perfect—that I’m as fast as he needs, that he’s sent the ball exactly where it needs to go.
My head connects with the ball, flies into the corner of the net.
Goal!!!
I’m screaming, elated, smiling so wide my face hurts, as the team piles on top of me, shouting, thrilled. We’re tied. Which is good. Fine. But not great.
Not enough.
My eyes lock with Gavin’s in understanding. He glances toward the dwindling time. Thirty seconds left. I know exactly how we’re going to use it:
To win.
23
GAVIN
Playlist: “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” Penny & Sparrow