"I told you, Mayo," I smiled, grabbing one of her cans and opening it at the satisfying click. "The second half is always more interesting."
She smiled, taking the can out of my hand. "And since when are you a sports enthusiast?" she asked, drinking from my can. "You can’t even finish half a can."
I smiled, reaching for my juice. "Obviously I’m not going to have your tolerance — I only started drinking a year ago."
"A year ago?" she questioned. "It’s not like you’re Egyptian to start at twenty-one," she smiled, handing a can. "In almost every country it’s legal at eighteen. And if you’re , at fourteen."
"Fourteen is illegal," I answered.
She took a sip, exhaling with satisfaction. "Laws were made to be broken, little fox. Loosen up a bit, I know a mas—"
"I’m not going to your sexual masseuse," I interrupted, opening the can. "But I’m stronger than I look." I took a first sip and imdiately spit it out. "It tastes like urine," I said, watching Mayo laugh from her stomach.
"These are 22% alcohol, dummy," she answered. "The ones at the bar were really boring, so I bought the strongest ones," she said, still laughing.
The second-half whistle blew, announcing the start of the match.
Chapter 34: Defense Ga V
Nolan, who had gone out to buy more things for the second half, ca back and joined us. "What are you two laughing about?" he asked, setting down a tray of chips — half with salsa and half with li.
"The match is more interesting than I thought," I answered, grabbing a chip with li.
"Do you think they’ll hold on?" asked Mayo, grabbing three with salsa. "You know, they let in two goals in less than half an hour."
"I don’t think they’ll hold on," I answered, watching Nolan look at in surprise.
"What, you don’t trust them?" questioned Mayo, twisting her expression. "What happened to your little speech about trust?"
"I said I don’t think they’ll hold on," I corrected. "Because they’re going to win."
"And how are you so sure about that? Have you watched their matches where the result matched what you’re saying?"
"I trust them," said Nolan, pulling closer. "I have no proof, but I have no doubts either."
She smiled, taking a sip from her can. "I like how that sounds," she answered, letting out a small laugh. "Love as trust — sothing hard but not impossible to understand."
I smiled, turning back to the match with confidence in their victory.
"Goal," whispered Nolan, sighing as he covered his face.
The third goal was unexpected, scored at minute fifty-two off a bad cross from a defender that gifted the ball to their bearded striker.
Half the stadium celebrated the enemy goal. But the other half, alongside us, didn’t know what to say in the face of the slap the world had just dealt us.
Three to two.
Mayo was the first to lose the strength in her shoulders — completely understandable. When the world screams that you’re wrong, you have no choice but to believe it and change to fit its expectations. She only lifted her arms to drink from her can.
The team was discouraged; the crowd shared the feeling. Only Mr. Arrit kept his gaze high. He trusted.
"And if he could..." I whispered, setting my drink aside. "So can I."
In one jump I stood in front of the stands, watching the team with their shoulders slumped and their eyes lost on the scoreboard. I pressed my hands to my chest, feeling the denim of Nolan’s jacket, and inhaled.
"Let’s go, Vancouver Moose!" I scread with everything I had. "You can do it!"
They turned to look at without a word, like I was a shadow in the darkness.
"I believe in you, little moose!" Mayo joined in, screaming with the sa force or more. "Move your asses, you guys!"
Behind , he moved — my magician joined in. "Yes, you can! Moose!"
They barely looked up, as if our words hardly existed — but that was enough.
"I trust too!" shouted a man sitting next to his wife. "Those are my Moose!"
" too!" shouted another from the other corner.
" too, my beavers!"
Flags began to rise.
"We trust too!" a group of girls scread in unison.
"If those beautiful girls are cheering, so am I!" shouted one in a Beavers shirt. "You’re gorgeous, albino girl!"
I saw him and stepped back, but Nolan and Mayo each offered their hand, which made smile. "You can do it, Moose!"
Trumpets began to sound, rattles shaking like crazy, shouts feeding those down below. Their eyes shone, their bodies trembled, and like a symbol of will, Tomás raised his fist — lifting it with force.
"Tomás," I whispered, watching the chain reaction it sparked in the team, which spread through every section of the stands, among won and n, boys and girls. They raised their fists with conviction. I looked at Mr. Arrit, I looked at Nolan, I looked at Mayo. "Moose," I whispered, raising mine like them. "You’re going to win!"
Tomás’s fist stayed in the air, his gaze on the ground, slowly lifting — rising toward the yellow light of the sun. The whole world surrounded him in that mont. Everyone was placing their trust in him, everyone out of love. He tapped his gloves together, a smile drawn with force across his face — the guardian had taken his place, and his eyes said only one thing: I’m not alone.
The referee blew to restart. And the Vancouver Moose took off.
I don’t know exactly how to describe it. They weren’t running faster or hitting harder. It was sothing more difficult to asure.
"It’s conviction" — that specific conviction a team finds when they stop playing not to lose and start playing to win.
Mayo was still standing beside ; her cans waited in the seats, but nobody was anywhere close to paying them any attention.
"This is exciting, Ryne," she smiled. "These guys can win. More than that — they’re going to win!"
"Yes," I confird, taking her hand and raising it as high as I could reach. "They’re going to win!"
Mayo laughed, lifting a little higher. "Do you think it was because of us?" she asked.
"No," I answered, watching her head tilt. "It wasn’t just because of us — it was because of all of us."
"It was the trust you had in them, Ryne," said Mr. Arrit, settling in beside us. "Your heart is full of love, child."
"Don’t flatter , Mr. Arrit," I answered. "You’re the person who loves them most — I just showed it without your permission."
He lowered his head in a gesture of approval. "They had the strength inside," he said, returning to his seat. "We just reminded them of it."
"Ryne," called Mayo, a smile in her eyes. "You’re being a very happy girl right now." Her smile grew as she closed her eyes. "That makes glad — even if my shoes pinch afterward."
The equalizer ca at minute sixty-seven.
A play built from the back, patiently, passing the ball from side to side until finding the space the opposing team left by attacking too aggressively. The Moose’s number nine received the ball with his back to goal, turned in a single motion, and shot before the defender could get into position — a clean, direct strike.
Three to three.
Our side of the stands exploded; theirs did too. Mayo still had her hand in the air — she hadn’t dared lower it for ten minutes.
"I KNEW IT!" she scread, though fifteen minutes ago her shoulders had said exactly the opposite.
Nolan lifted off the ground with his hands at my waist, spinning on his axis like a princess in a royal waltz before setting back on the concrete — that spontaneity of his that only appeared when sothing truly surprised him.
Tomás, from the goal, pointed at his teammate with his index finger. Just that. No running, no shouting. Just pointing — as if to say: I knew you could.
Minute seventy-eight was the longest of the match.
The opposing team reacted with an urgency that reorganized the entire field, attacking with everyone available, leaving the defense exposed in that calculated gamble of those who need to score before ti runs out. A counter-attack crossed the pitch in four passes.
Tomás was left alone against two attackers who had dragged the defenders down to the ground. It was their display of power, of dominance.
"Impossible," muttered Mayo. "That’s a foul, ref!"
But her words couldn’t erase the terrifying scene. The number nine looked like he was going to shoot; Tomás squeezed his eyes toward him, calculating the shot in seconds.
Blam!
He shot — but Tomás didn’t move. The stands froze. Mayo wasn’t breathing.
Though it seed like it, it wasn’t an error. His shot wasn’t claiming victory; it was a pass to his teammate, the team’s top scorer. Not even his beard could hide his arrogant smile as he watched Tomás like a mouse that deserved to be crushed — tensing his entire leg in a motion calibrated to the milliter.
BLAM! — a strike that rang out like a gunshot.
The images seed to freeze before my eyes, splitting fra by fra. I watched Tomás exhale one last ti before launching himself. His entire body stretched toward the corner — sothing impossible. His gloved fingers reaching for the ball in the last available centiter, with the determination of soone who had already decided to give everything, even his own dignity as a human being in that mont.
His feet dragged, his body stretched dangerously, his eyes endured the cuts of the air without closing — until his hands reached it.
Thud!
His hands beca an immovable wall. He caught the ball with both hands, covering it as if that sphere were the most valuable thing in the world in that mont. He raised his fist, and then he exploded.
"Let’s GOOOOOO!" he scread, launching the ball to midfield, and with every emotion dilating his veins, he burst out of the goal running alongside his defenders — beginning the definitive counter-attack.
Mayo covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling in a way that in any other mont I might have confused with crying. But when she lowered them, she was laughing. That genuine laugh of hers — the small one, the one that didn’t fill a room or ask for attention.
"Impossible!" she shouted, jumping. "He’s a twelve-year-old kid!"
"Yes," I said. "And I trust him."
She looked at . She didn’t answer. But sothing in her black eyes did what her words couldn’t: announce the final goal, scored in the last second, just before the final whistle. A play built with the full force of eleven players willing to be champions. Maybe soccer is played by eleven, but in that mont, everyone wanted their goal — everyone wanted to win.
"Tomás never told us," I whispered, watching the 3–4 on the scoreboard. "That he, before becoming a goalkeeper, used to play striker."
Moose win.
"GOOOOOAL!" shouted Nolan from my left, on his feet, arms in the air.
Mayo jumped. "GOOOOOAL!"
I joined them. "GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
Mr. Arrit watched us like children competing over who could scream the loudest, clapping and laughing, shaking his head up and down.
"THEY WON! THEY WON! THEY WON!" she scread — though forty minutes ago she had said they were going to lose, though her fists on her knees had said sothing else entirely, though she had demanded that trust prove itself before she’d believe in it. Now she knew. And she scread it.
I hugged her, happy for the mont. I didn’t decide to — my body did it before my head could. Mayo hugged back, and when I let go, she took off running toward the field screaming the goalkeeper’s na.
"Hey, I was his babysitter, I’m authorized to take care of him! So if you want a photo with little Tomy, get in line — and I’m first!"
Nolan watched her taking photos with every family that wanted a nto with Tomás.
"She’s impossible," he said, pointing at her with a laugh.
"She always has been," I answered. "This match is proof that the impossible is possible."
Nolan took by the arm, gesturing toward the field with a smile. "Shall we?"
I nodded.
Mayo was already down there, taking photos with half the team. The phone passed from hand to hand and she posed in every single shot as if they had all co to see her. We arrived just as Mayo spotted Tomás among his teammates and made her way over with that renewed energy she saved for the monts that truly mattered to her.
"Hey!" she shouted, gathering the team with a sweep of her arms that nobody questioned. "Who was the goalkeeper that saved the match!?" she yelled, yanking Tomás forward in one motion. "Co on! All together!"
Tomás didn’t seem to understand what was about to happen — until his team grabbed him by the legs. "Tomy!" they all scread at once, throwing him into the air.
Tomás was screaming for them to put him down. Nobody put him down. I clapped from where I was, laughing with a smile. Then I felt Nolan’s hands on my waist. He lifted in one clean motion, hoisting onto his shoulder with that strength of his I always forgot he had — and from up there, from above, I could see everything at once.
Mr. Arrit clapping slowly beside the railing. The team throwing Tomás into the air for the fourth ti. Every section of the stands clapping and cheering for the mont. Everyone smiling over a perfect match, on a perfect Sunday in my perfect world.
In the car on the way back, the silence was the comfortable kind. Mayo was in the back seat, her head resting against the window and her eyes half-closed, exhausted in an almost tender way.
"Hey, Ryne," she said without moving. "Did you enjoy the match?"
I looked at her in the rearview mirror, nodding with a smile. "Yes," I said. "It was a lot of fun — I hope I still have a voice tomorrow."
She smiled, closing her eyes. "Sa," she murmured. "It was great."
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