Sadly, our combined efforts weren’t enough to convince the ref. He awarded the Greens another penalty kick. They’d missed their last one, but this time, Rafael kicked the ball firmly into the net.
The Greens were now up, three to two.
I clenched my jaw. Goddammit.
It was a charity match, but the stakes felt as high as those of a championship. I refused to let Rafael bloody Pessoa take home a win. The mere thought caused bile to rise in my throat.
Even if he hadn’t screwed Scarlett over, I would’ve hated him. Maybe it was my lingering bitterness from the World Cup, but I firmly believed that any player who engaged in regular diving didn’t deserve a place on the pitch.
“Tough luck,” Rafael said the next time we were close enough for him to shit talk without anyone else hearing. “Guess the golden boy of football isn’t so golden anymore. Can’t wait to follow Holchester’s footsteps and kick your and DuBois’s asses.”
I shouldn’t take the bait. Players trash talked each other all the time, and I was usually pretty good at letting their taunts roll off my back.
However, my frustration over the direction of the match and the ref’s earlier calls had already reached a furious simmer. The mention of Holchester turned it into a full boil.
I might still have been able to contain it had I not glanced at the crowd and seen Scarlett in that moment. Her worried expression blended with the image of her face when she shared what’d happened with Rafael. How forlorn she’d seemed and how sad she’d sounded. She said their breakup turned out for the best, but no one liked being abandoned when they were at their lowest.
I pictured her lying in bed and in pain while he ditched her to date someone else.
I imagined how heartbroken she must’ve felt.
And I snapped.
Red crept into my vision. Anger burned reason into ash, and instead of brushing off Rafael’s taunt, I turned and shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.
At that moment, we weren’t playing a match. We were fighting for real, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug smirk off his face.
A collective gasp reverberated through the stadium.
Rafael recovered and spat out something in Portuguese. He shoved me back. Vincent grabbed the back of my shirt to prevent me from punching him, but when Rafael issued another taunt that I couldn’t hear, he let out a growl and released me.
Vincent swung for him and would’ve made contact had another Green not stepped in at the last minute. The rest of our teams jumped in, blinded by their temporary loyalty to their colors. From there, it devolved into a dirty, all-out brawl.
The crowd’s shouts thundered across the pitch, drowning out a flurry of swear words and threats.
“What is your problem?” Rafael shouted.
“My problem is you.” I had more choice words for him, none of which were appropriate for the venue, but before I could unload on him, a shrill, prolonged whistle cut through the chaos.
“Enough!” The ref shoved his way into the middle of the brawl. He’d been trying to get us under control for the past two minutes, and he’d clearly had enough.
The man’s face matched the color of my kit as he glared at us, his shoulders quivering with outrage.
“This is a charity match for kids,” he hissed. “I don’t care who you are or what bad blood you have. This is a bloody disgrace. Look at them! Do you think you’re setting a good example for them right now?”
I followed his finger to where a group of kids sat in the front row. They ranged from maybe six to thirteen in age, but they all wore matching Sport for Hope T-shirts and round-mouthed expressions of shock.
Shame snuffed out the hostility faster than rain over fire.
My blood pumped with the dregs of fury, but the reminder of the children’s presence and why I was doing this—for the kids, yes, but also for Teddy’s memory—chastised me enough to step back from Rafael.
The other players hung their heads, equally abashed.
It wasn’t a regulation match so the ref couldn’t red card us, but he awarded the Greens yet another penalty kick since I was the one who made first contact.
Once again, they scored. They were now up four to two.
“That smug bastard.” Vincent seethed beside me. “Look at him. He thinks they’re going to win.”
Rafael gave us a mocking two-finger salute from across the pitch, his smirk firmly back in place.
“Over my dead body.” My hand curled into a fist. “Let’s take him down.”
A vicious smile slashed across Vincent’s face. “Best idea I’ve ever heard.”
Like the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy was my friend. For the next thirty minutes, we were united in our hatred of Rafael, and we played like we were vying for the World Cup again—only this time, we were on the same team.
Vincent blocked a pass from Rafael to another Green. He kicked the ball to me, and I took it and ran.
The goal was a foregone conclusion. The Greens’ keeper barely had time to react before the ball sank deep into the net, and the stadium erupted into cheers.
“Gooooallll!” The announcer dragged the word out over the loudspeaker.
I allowed myself a spark of triumph.
Three to four. Almost there.
“Go, Reds!” A familiar voice screamed over the crowd.
