Moments like this meant I’d made it and proved my critics wrong—which I had, many times over.
After all, I was Asher Fucking Donovan.
But today, in the last minute of the final game of the Premier League season, I felt like just Asher, the newest and most controversial transfer to Blackcastle.
It was my first season with the team, the match was tied, and we were second on the league table behind Holchester United.
We needed a win to take home the trophy, but so far, the match had been a clusterfuck of disasters.
An intercepted ball here, a missed penalty there. We were all over the place, and I could practically see victory slipping through my fingers.
Frustration mounted as I tried to maneuver past the swarm of Holchester defenders. Bocci, Lyle, Kanu—I knew their tricks well, but they also knew mine.
That was the problem with playing against your old team; there was nowhere to hide.
With no way out, I passed the ball to another forward and tried to ignore the time ticking down.
Forty seconds.
Thirty-nine.
Thirty-eight.
The ball bounced between players until, through a stroke of equally good and bad luck, Vincent gained possession through a counterattack.
The cheers dulled to a low roar beneath the weight of my anticipation.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
Fifteen.
I was in the perfect position to receive the ball. I had a clear shot at the goal, but I could see Vincent’s eyes searching the pitch for someone, anyone else to pass it to.
My pulse hammered in rhythm with the ticking clock.
Come on, you bastard.
There was no one else. I was the only player on our team who could feasibly score at this point. Vincent must’ve come to the same conclusion because, with a noticeable clench of his jaw, he finally kicked the ball to me.
The crowd’s excitement pitched high, but it was too late.
Vincent’s precious few seconds of hesitation gave Holchester an opening, and they stole the ball before I could connect with it.
A collective groan rippled over the pitch.
I blinked away the sweat and tried to focus, but my old team’s taunting stares and the blaze of bright lights disoriented me in a way I hadn’t felt since that match many moons ago.
Five.
An attempt to steal the ball back failed.
Four.
Flashes of news headlines and TV snippets blared in my head. Traitor. Judas. Sellout. Was I worth the record 250-million-pound transfer, or was I the most expensive mistake in Premier League history?
Three.
By some miracle, I got the ball on the second attempt.
Two.
No time to think.
One.
I kicked.
The ball went wide to the shrill of the final whistle, and the stadium fell so silent I could hear the rush of blood in my ears.
All around me, my team stood, stunned, while the Holchester players jumped and whooped in celebration.
It was over.
We’d lost.
My first season with Blackcastle—the one where everyone expected me to bring home a championship—was over, and we’d lost.
