Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [40]
It sailed into the net. And the opposing team—along with their fans—went wild.
Bryce lay on the ground a moment, angry with himself. But even more so—bewildered. How had they let that happen? Looking accusingly at Charlie, he saw him leaning over, winded, grabbing the front of his shorts. What’s up with him anyway? Bryce wondered.
But the Flames didn’t have time to lament the tying goal, nor the Raptors to celebrate. With only one minute remaining, Charlie called his team to get ready for the kickoff. Sloughing off any signs of insecurity or fear, Charlie determined one thing: As leader, he would make sure they saw nothing but confidence in him. “Execute!” Charlie yelled out, pumping his fist and making eye contact with his forwards.
They all knew what he meant. As did most well-coached teams, the Flames had practiced a set play for just such an occasion. The Flames realized they now had to give it their best effort to score. It was a long shot, but they set their jaws with determination and sprinted to their positions on the field.
Charlie provided one last encouragement. “We can do this!” he yelled at them, repeating it again. “We can do this!”
The referee placed the ball on the center mark of the field. Blew the whistle. Signaled for time to start.
With calm aplomb, Charlie put his foot on top of the ball. Barely nudged it toward his right midfielder, Austin, who immediately burst into a sprint and passed it to the right wing, Riley. Taken somewhat off guard, the Raptors tried to adjust defensively. But the Flames had gained a step on them by maneuvering the ball toward the sideline.
The ball passed from Riley to Austin to Jason, who performed the move they’d practiced over and over—a deceptive flick pass, using the outside of his foot to send the ball to Charlie. Setting it up so Charlie could execute yet another flick pass to punch the ball toward the goal. It sailed past the duped goalie into the waiting net, and as the last seconds ticked away, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
End of game.
As a roar broke out in the stands, the Flames swarmed around Charlie, lifting him onto their shoulders. Though Charlie grimaced at first, the look of joy on his face won out, and he pumped his fists in the air, shouting, “Flames! Flames! Flames!”
Fans ran onto the field too, gathering around the players, joining in the jubilation. But Charles Senior had moved next to Coach Henry. “Seems to me they ought to be thinking more about the next game,” he pointed out. “They pull off that one, then they’ve earned the right to celebrate.”
“Agreed,” was all Coach Henry replied, nodding his head.
The Flames met the Raptors on the halfway line, ready for the end-of-game ritual of shaking hands. The Raptors’ heads were down, mostly, with the exception of the blond center forward who had scored their lone goal. Noticeably holding his chin high, he didn’t merely slide through extended hands, but took time to firmly shake each one. When he came to Charlie, he looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Good game,” he offered. He nodded down toward Charlie’s lower right leg. “Better take care of that.”
Charlie gave him a quizzical look in return. “What?”
“Better have your leg looked at. You’re favoring it, you know.”
And with that, he moved on to the next Flames player in line.
When Charlie walked over to the sideline, his dad was waiting for him. “What was that about?”
“What?”
“The exchange with their star player. What’s his problem?”
Charlie shrugged. “Nothin’. He just said it was a good game.”
“Darn right it was. Good job, sport, although you did look winded out there. You and I need to start jogging.” He put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder as they walked toward the gathering of Flames players.
The boys flopped down onto the grass, suddenly spent. The adrenaline rush had calmed, leaving them drained physically and emotionally. But they were still active boys with energy in reserve, poking