Gina

Overtime. Ten seconds left on the clock. My lungs burned with every ragged breath I took. The scoreboard still showed that cruel, mocking 2-2—a deadlock that had stretched our nerves to the breaking point. From where I stood, the opponent's goal looked impossibly far away—54 meters of grass that might as well have been an ocean.

The ball sat at my feet, still warm from the chaos of the last play. Every fiber of my being screamed that this was it—everything we'd worked for came down to this single moment.

I looked up and immediately spotted Braxton. Positioned perfectly as always, our golden boy striker. He was already raising his hand, calling for the pass with that trademark confidence, like he could already taste the victory.

Of course. Any sane player would send it his way. It was the smart play. The winning play.

But like an idiot, I turned my head. Almost against my will, my eyes drifted toward the sideline. Toward the bench. And that's when I saw her.

Gina.

Our manager, our caretaker, my best friend for the past 12 years. She clutched a sweat-stained towel in her hands, but her gaze wasn't on me. It never was anymore. Her brown eyes were locked on Braxton, shining with something I recognized all too well.

Something inside my chest went cold and hollow. Like someone had reached into my ribcage and squeezed my heart until it stopped beating. All those feelings I'd been shoving down, all those words I'd never said—they came rushing up my throat at once, choking me.

Why... even now, even in this moment, won't you look at me?

Less than a heartbeat had passed. But that fraction of a second felt like it lasted forever. Shock crashed over me, followed by anger, then this bitter, familiar taste of defeat. My mind went blank, but something else was building inside me—something hot and reckless.

I lifted my head back toward the field. Braxton was still signaling, still waiting for me to make the obvious choice.

But now, the choice was mine alone.