Monarchs FC 2 2 SS Ambrosiana

They had been prepared.

Monarchs had clearly read our defenses diligently, able to counter most of our attacks and capitalise on one of our best defenders being off the pitch due to a cramp. Even before the extra time started, I was wary this was going to go into penalties.

I cornered Rossi right before the shootout. "Five strikers," I said to him as the team started filing out of the tunnel. Luca glanced at me, walking over to us as I continued. Rossi looked at him once, before quickly fixing his gaze on me instead as I continued. "This would be their order—"

"I already have that mapped out—" Rossi said, shaking his sipper in front of my face, where he had written the names of all of Monarch's players and where they were likely to shoot.

"No," I clicked my tongue. "No. They are prepared. They will have changed. New order of shoot. Listen to me—" I grabbed his water bottle and took a pen from Coach Vance, scribbling onto it quickly. "Follow this."

Rossi took the water bottle from me and nodded.

Luca was set to take the first penalty from our side. He shot the ball low right, which I read a nanosecond before the keeper leapt. However, the ball passed right under his torso and into the back of the net.

The crowd roared, the ground below my boots vibrating at the deafening sound. Luca flashed a bright smile at the supporters, flashing his signature 'M' sign before coming back to join us, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Next up was one of Monarchs' strikers. Right-footed. He had taken two out of three shots in the entire tournament in the upper right corner. I held my breath as he took the shot. Rossi leapt up, just as I had instructed him to, and managed to get the tip of his fingers on the ball; however, its momentum carried it into the net anyway.

I was next. I walked slowly over to the penalty box. Their keeper hopped on one spot, his eyes fixed on my boots. I lobbed the ball over his shoulders as he dove to the left, completely missing any contact with the ball. Goal.

Their next striker was their captain, and one of the highest-scoring players in the league. He was going to take a risk, send a low ball. That's what he had done in sixty percent of his games. Rossi firmly planted his feet on the ground, and even before the striker shot, I knew it was going to be saved.

Another roar from the stadium. Fernandez walked up next, took a sharp breath, and lobbed the ball to his left. The keeper leapt, but failed to get his hands on it. Another goal.

We had scored three out of our three shots. They had scored two. One more save from Rossi, one more hit from us would seal the deal.

Santoro walked up to the pitch, took off running, and rocketed the ball at the upper end of the net. Another goal.

Their next striker walked agonizingly slowly onto the pitch, sweating bullets as he took his position in front of Rossi. He was going to shoot straight; he had shot straight for eighty percent of his goal shots. Rossi nodded once and leapt, forcefully pushing the ball out of the net just as it had started to curl inwards from the top of his head. Saved.

Absolute chaos erupted on the pitch as the team screamed and celebrated our spot in the finals. And even though I tried to look for Luca in the exhilaration, I couldn't find him in the sea of people.

*

'Sorry. Need to train.'

I looked down at Luca's message from two days ago. The day we were supposed to go to Inverness, and I was supposed to show him my estate. He wasn't wrong. We had finals tomorrow. It was probably better to completely focus on training for now. Even though a part of me believed getting away from the suffocating pressure would have done more good than harm. 

I sighed and slumped back onto the hotel bed, gazing up at the ceiling. I wasn't familiar with the hollow, almost anxious feeling clawing in my chest. The final was scheduled for tomorrow at the same Manchester stadium, but such a sort of thing hardly fazed me. But something was making my chest physically hurt to the point where I had insisted the nurse do a physical checkup. She had found no anomalies, apart from a slightly raised blood pressure and heartbeat.

"It is normal, Master Elliot—" she had said to me. "You are anxious. You have a big game tomorrow."

But none of it seemed to explain why my chest physically hurt.

But anytime that I closed my eyes, the image of Luca sitting at the very front of the plane floated behind my eyelids. And I remembered how suddenly freezing the air inside had felt when I had woken up. This was something I had catalogued with high precision merely due to the contrast of how warm and comforting he had felt beside me. I could not come up with a rational explanation as to why he had not...stayed. 

I could not keep thinking about the image. I was not even sure why I was. It was insignificant, a data variable that had no concrete...anything. Just like that day at his apartment. I could feel the numbers slipping from between my fingers. 

I rubbed my eyes. I could already feel my metrics and logic slipping away from me. I could not afford to do this right now. I needed at least seven hours of sleep for optimum functionality. 

I reached for my phone, typing 'how to release stress' and looking through the set of suggestions. 

1. Physically release stress through movement. 

Did not compute; I had been training all day and still felt stressed. 

2. Keep your phone away for 10-15 minutes, and my absolute least favourite

3. —deep breaths. 

I scrolled lower to see if there was anything more substantial; most of these suggested ideas seemed more like a distraction protocol than actually aimed at the underlying cause. And I came across two more that caught my eye. They were tangible, actionable things that could very well work. 

I sat up straight, shoved my phone into my pocket, and got to my feet. I knew Luca was staying two rooms away from me. And for the first time in my life, I didn't have a backup plan in my head. I reached for the mini fridge in my room, and even though I was not supposed to— I decided to have some orange juice just so my hands would have some place to be at when I approached him. Then, I made my way over and knocked on his door.