A lucky block from Zach Smith and another unbelievable save from their keeper kept us out, but the team buzzed for another one. There was something about our relentless attacks not ending in goals that felt disappointingly familiar, but it didn't stop us throwing everything we could at their defence.
The clock ticked down in front of me. The noise in the stadium grew. Rodri passed me the ball on the halfway line, and I spotted it: a huge space down the line. Gathering the ball under my feet, I went for it, confidence driving me forwards.
Zach Smith stepped up to make the tackle. In my periphery vision, I spotted George tracking back on my inside. Mason called for the ball, but Zach was off balance, leaving space on my right. I was faster than George: get it past Zach and I'd have a direct line to the top of the box. I turned inside.
A split second too late, their right wing materialized, emerging from my blind spot. Lifting up my arms, I anticipated the meeting. We crashed into each other, both at full speed. Before I could steady myself, George smashed into my back, knocking the air from my lungs. I shut my eyes, rushing for the ground. The cry that sounded as I landed didn't even sound like it came from me.
Stabbing agony reared up from my left wrist. Surprise and pain and windedness left me gasping for air. The trill of the ref's whistle and shocked cries from the crowd and angry protests from my teammates were all background noise to my own gulps.
I was in more pain than I had been in Russia, and I thought I'd never feel pain like that again. My wrist was broken; it had to be. Nothing else would be this sore.
Rolling over onto my back, the stadium lights blinded me. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears wet my cheeks. Opening then again, I blinked hastily. A tremor of pain forced another gasp out of my mouth. Stu knelt beside me, forcing my gaze away from the dark sky.
"Beck, hey, you alright?"
Tears leaked from my eyes, blurring the medic. I shook my head and sat up, helped by his hand on my back. Glancing down into my lap, I cradled my left hand with my right. My fingers shook; my wrist throbbed. Tearing my eyes away, I looked around to the rest of the pitch.
Abby, Mason and Annika stood in a huddle, concerned eyes on me. Beside them, the ref spoke to the protesting pair of captains, both of whom waved their hands around.
"That looks pretty sore," Stu commented. "I'm going to take a look, okay? Can you let me do that?"
I hesitantly nodded and Stu reached forwards. Cold, gloved hands took my wrist. I winced, but withdrew my right hand. A second later I cried out in agony, jerking my arm away as a reflex when Stu tried to bend it backwards. Stu, talking soothingly, took it again and attempted to move it around a second time. I swore under my breath, trying my hardest not to pull away again, but eventually I couldn't help it.
"Excuse me." Blinking back tears, I saw the ref standing over us. He raised his eyebrows. "You're going to have to step off the pitch to continue treatment. We need to carry on with the game."
I suppressed the rage creeping up my chest and instead let Stu help me up. At once, Mason appeared at my side.
"Hart, Jesus, what happened? Are you okay?"
"No, Mason." Despite my harsh reply, he gently rested a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. Some of the bitterness I felt eased at his touch.
"Carroll got booked, finally," he carried on, walking beside Stu and me as we headed off the pitch. "And we pleaded your case to the ref, who told them to stop targeting you, which isâ" I winced, and Mason trailed off. "Fuck, Beck, I hope you're okay."
I turned to look at him. Concern crinkled the corners of his eyes. Heart pounding, I nodded. He came to a stop at the sideline, so I slowed for a second, too.
"Come back on, okay? We need you."
With that, he took off in the other direction.
"Beck?" Stu said. "I'm sorry, but you need to get this looked at. Now. I don't think you shouldâ"
"No!" Emil was placing the free kick, but I spun to look at the medic. "No way. We've made all our changes. I have to finish the game."
"Rebecca, I see your urgency, but you care barely let me touch it." I swallowed, a wave of panic crawling up my spine. "What if someone barges into you? Or you fall on it again?"
"I have to go back on," I insisted, my voice cracking with panic. "Can't you just strap it? Or, like, get a brace?" His frown deepened, as did my hysteria. "Please, Stu? I have to get back out there."
With a sigh, Stu sat me down on the bench. Frank stood in front of me, shouting orders at Emil. Spurs had a goal kick, and their keeper was walking to fetch the ball, likely wasting as much time as he could.
"This is a bad idea," he said. Despite his words, though, he rifled through the bag beside him and removed a roll of bandages.
"Beck, you alright?" Frank called. Glancing up, I nodded and attempted a smile at my manager.
"Just strapping and I'll be back out there." With a curt nod, Frank turned away again. Gone was his carefree behaviour from halftime; Frank wore a frown, his whole body stiff as he paced the grass in front of me.
I tried not to show it, but every time Stu touched the tender area, pain flared down my arm. Pouring water down my throat didn't distract me, and neither did watching my leg bounce up and down.
A huge roar around the stadium forced my attention back to the game. Spurs had a corner, but I guessed the crowd was riled up about the group of blue and white shirts in a scuffle in the box. I couldn't make out faces in the group, but I hoped Mason wasn't a part of it: the last thing we needed was for him to get a second yellow.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Stu asked.
My wrist was strapped as tightly as possibly, blue tape a bright distraction on my arm. I attempted to flex my hand, but gave up with a sharp intake of breath.
"I'm sure."
With a tentative nod, Stu caved. "Just try not to do anymore damage, yeah?"
I smiled and stood up, looking past him and towards our box. The fight had broken up and Spurs were about to take the corner. I walked to the halfway line, hoping to sprint on before they took it, but the fourth official held me back.
"After the corner," he said, eyes trained on the action.
Holding my breath, I watched the ball be delivered into the box. David palmed it away, and in the process toppled over Annika. Both of them remained on the floor as the most unlikely candidate in Sophie North ran into the space where the ball headed. Kyle and Spencer both leaped for the ball, but they were a step too far away. The ball left Sophie's head and even with a desperate lunge courtesy of Emil, the ball fell into the back of the net.
I released my breath slowly. My stomach sank as the stadium boomed with cries of glory by the Spurs fans. Angry, disappointed tears prickled the backs of my eyes. My teammates stood dumbfounded, hopelessly watching as the Spurs team ran to the crowd, celebrating as if they'd just won the Champion's League.
"You can go on now."
I nodded at the fourth official, but I felt too sick to move. Guilt froze me in place. What if I had just stayed on? Maybe we wouldn't have given away the corner; maybe I would have been there to stop Sophie; maybe we'd still be in with a shot of three points. Was this my fault?
The shouting of Emil broke me out of my trace. He clapped his hands, waved his arms in the air, screamed at the team to keep their heads up and keep fighting. I took a deep breath before sprinting back onto the pitch. The Spurs team had broken up and were strolling back to their places, their faces smug as they dispersed across the pitch.
Passing Mason, I slowed my pace. His face was set, his hands on his hips. He seemed to be in a trace, with his lips rolled into his mouth and his gaze set across the field. Within seconds, though, his attention switched and his head lurched towards me. The determination written on his face softened.
"You okay, Hart?" he called.
"I'll be fine." The briefest of smiles passed over his lips. "Head up, yeah? There's still tons to play for here."
He nodded, that courageous look coming over him once more. "I'm glad you're back."
I didn't have time to think about his words, or their meaning, or the rawness that took hold of him, or the pain coming from my wrist, or anything, because a second later the ref blew his whistle and everything in my head screamed we cannot lose this game.
I trailed behind Abby as Spencer restarted. Rodri fed it out to the right, and Victor carried it up the line. Spurs were backing off, parking the bus deep in their half. Victor stood on the halfway line surveying his limited options. With no other choice, he passed it back to Annika. She first-timed it to Emil, who already had his hands in the air as he shouted for some options. Mason darted back to offer support and Emil fired a pass into him. I was already off down the line when Mason received it, and with my arm raised, he chipped the ball over the head of the approaching Spurs midfielder.
Their winger tracked back on my outside. My eyes followed the ball, but I felt her a pace behind me. From judging the ball's flight, I slowed down for a moment, allowing her to draw level at my side. I had a feeling there would be a jostle coming, so I decided to jump for the ball instead of letting it land. Chances were if she jumped too and we collided, I'd win the foul.
Springing up, the ball hit my head, but the winger clearly had the same idea as me. A split second later her body jarred into my side. My wrist was trapped between my body and hers, and it bent backwards despite the strapping. Vision blurry, my feet hit the ground and I stumbled, unsteady as pain surged down my arm. With a few deep breaths, I lowered myself onto the ground, holding my delicate left arm close to my body.
In a haze, I waved away the Spurs player as she offered a cursory apology. Intense throbbing kept me struggling for air. Unaware of what had resulted from the move, I tried to shift my concentration back to my surroundings. The ref was approaching me, closely followed by Emil and Mason. Stern eyes stared down at me as the official stopped in front of me.
"Look, do you want to go off again?"
I shook my head, swallowing back anguish as I tried to put on a brave face. Cursing myself and my weakness, I cleared my throat.
"I'm fine; I'm fine. Sorry."
With a terse nod, the ref turned away. Emil beside him waved off who I imagined was Stu over my shoulder. Mason stepped forward, offering his hand. With a final deep breath, I clasped onto it and let him tug me up.
"You sure you're okay?" I met his eyes, which were wide with concern. "I didn't mean to pressure you to come back on, yeah? If it's badâ"
I cut him off by squeezing his hand. "I'm fine. I swear."
Mason nodded, his face still twisted. "You got this, Hart."
Zach had the ball in his hands, ready for a throw in. Breathing deeply, I ran backwards further down the line. The scoreboard above the stand in front of me read ninety minutes. Glancing over my shoulder, a green five flashed from the fourth official's board. Five minutes. We only had five minutes to get another goal.
Panic took over me, tightening my chest. The crowd became too much, the pain in my wrist unbearable. I should have gone off, this was a terrible idea. The team would be better off without me on the pitch right now.
Get it together.
Minutes passed before we saw the ball again. Mason lead the press, sprinting from player to player in place of our tired forwards. He won it eventually, but pressure from the Spurs defenders forced him to go back. Rodri, with no other options, passed the ball to me.
All the emotions clouding my head faded as I saw it again: the same gap from just minutes ago. For half a second I paused. Try not to do anymore damage. My stomach flipped; my heart stopped.
I took off inside, tapping into energy I didn't know I had. Recalling my mistake, I knew what I had to do this time. The winger came to meet me, but I beat her with ease, and dodged around George a moment later. When the midfielder came charging at me from my left again, I simply pulled back and drifted past her right. A step over later and I'd beaten the centre back.
My head told me to lay it off for Mason or Kyle to finish, but my instinct told me I'd made it this far: I could finish it myself. Before any doubt could creep into my mind, I danced past the final defender.
Time slowed as my rocket of a shot fired into the back of the net. Pure triumph swelled in my chest. I let out an enormous cry as I carried on running, sprinting towards the net to gather the ball. The away fans on my right were going crazy, a contrast to the raging Spurs fans in front of me. Stepping around the defeated keeper, I tucked the ball under my left arm and spun around again.
The rest of the team were running back to their positions too, all except for Mason and Kyle. The pair, both of them screaming, met me at the top of the box.
"Hart, that was incredible!"
"Fuck, Beck, you're a legend!"
A huge smile spread across my face as I chucked the ball to Mason, accepting their praise. The despair that had gripped my chest just instants before gave way to intense hopefulness. We still had time. We could score another. We still had time.
My legs shook as adrenalin pulsed through my body, numbing the pain in my wrist. Spurs started again, but it seemed like they were on the same wavelength as I was. They pushed forwards instantly, but our players hung back, wise enough not to let them get another sniff of a goal. In what was surely the last move of the game, George got the ball on the halfway line. He skipped past Kyle, his intention clear.
Mason was the next to dive in, in what was a stupid, impulsive tackle. With George nowhere even close to our box, it was so unnecessary, and so unlike Mason. I knew it was bad, and the uproar from the crowd told me everyone in the stadium felt the same.
The ref's production of a second yellow card came as no surprise, but the flash of the red card made my stomach drop. Mason hung his head, his gaze on his feet, and sympathy flared up in my chest. The stadium loved it, and abuse echoed around me as he sulked off the pitch, his shirt pulled over his head.
I had no time to dwell on my sympathy, though. Sophie North took the free kick quickly, not giving us much of a chance to set up properly. Thankfully, Emil stepped up and won the ball, firing it across the pitch as soon as he did. Their keeper only had time to catch it before the ref blew the final whistle.
My legs caved, unable to hold me up anymore, and I fell backwards with a laugh. Derbies hardly ever disappointed, and this one was absolutely no different.