Hide & Seek - James Patterson [36]
The striker!
The goal scorer!
No one was on the playing field but him! The loner!
With only three minutes left in the game, he broke free again. He furiously pushed the ball down the left touchline, faked a pass inside but kept it himself, evading a defender who could only look after him in disbelief. His legs stopped suddenly, went forward again; stopped; accelerated from the dead stop.
Then he shot, and the ball cannoned forward, a white blur, nearly ripping the net at the back of the Brazilian goal.
“Gooool de America … Gooool de Will Shepherd.”
Time remaining: two minutes and forty-six seconds.
Still time enough.
CHAPTER 37
THE HUGE, SPRAWLING crowd had grown silent and still, their attention as much on the stadium clock as on the furious action on the field. Less than three minutes to play in what was suddenly a cliff-hanger.
No single player could defeat a great team. Not even Will Shepherd could accomplish such a feat.
Everyone watching believed that; yet none of them could be absolutely sure. He was such a dazzling scorer, perhaps the greatest striker ever. He was a magician, or perhaps he’d made a deal with the devil.
Will intercepted a pass to the Brazilian right wing and, like an eagle, swooped down the field at incredible speed. Everything was concentration now, moves practiced a thousand—no, a million times. He feinted left and went right at nearly ninety degrees, past a stranded defender. He could see the goalkeeper ahead of him, a patch of enemy color.
If he were God he couldn’t stop me, Will thought, and saw fear in the keeper’s eye. He switched the ball from his right leg to his left.
He used his elbow deftly on a defender. He curled softly to the right.
The ninety minutes were up. There would be a few seconds of stoppage time. Plenty of time to be immortal, to join the likes of Pele and Cruyff.
Relax. Let this stretch out. Feel it course through your body like heroin.
The Brazilian goalkeeper moved left, anticipating Will’s shot, leaving the right corner of the goal free.
Not much daylight—a tiny sliver.
The referee was raising his whistle. In seconds it would blow and the game would be over.
It was a shot Will was famous for, a curve hit with the left foot that broke from left to right, and Will measured it carefully in his mind’s eye. An opening as wide as the gates of Hell!
He was aware of so many things: the sudden, chilling silence of the stadium, the sound of his own breath, and even of the ball on the turf, the look of pure horror on the keeper’s face, the futile pursuit of the Brazilian sweeper.
His father’s face rose up before him. His eyes. His dead, open eyes on the surface of that swimming pool.
And with the force of a whirlwind the furies attacked, demons took possession of his instincts, his legs, his soul. No! He wouldn’t let that control him!
With a roar and a shudder, Will drew back his left leg and kicked. He hit it smoothly, perfectly.
He wanted to laugh at all those who had ever doubted him—he wanted to scream in each and every face looking down from their precious stadium seats.
The crowd went mad. Literally insane. Strangers hugged and kissed, and a wild dance began, one hundred thousand people participating in the frenzy. From outside and in, horns and trumpets blared, and a thousand streamers flew upward toward the moon.
As soon as he had shot, Will had fallen, all strength gone, and now as he lay on the ground he strained for the sound he didn’t hear: “Gooool de America … Gooool de Will Shepherd.”
He saw the players running off the field, fearful of the crazed mob of spectators streaming toward them. Puzzled, he tried to stand up. Fear swept through his body. He couldn’t get to his feet.
But the game is a draw, Will thought. There’s extra time to play. No one but the players should be allowed on the field. Get those assholes off. Get them off the field!
A stricken Wolf Obermeier reached his side and tried to help him to his