Ele turned from the field for a split second, like she was driving a car and a glance away from the road might propel her into oncoming traffic. “If it’s still tied, we go to penalty kicks?” she asked, returning her attention to the action below.
“Yes,” Jamie answered. “A penalty shootout.”
Without looking at him, she continued, “How does that work?” She didn’t have to see her brother to know he was most likely rolling his eyes at her ignorance. “This is the fifth football game I’ve ever watched, and none of them have ended like this.”
Jamie snickered. “They clear the field. Each team sends a keeper to the goal. Both teams select five players to take a shot from the penalty spot, in rotating order. The team with the most goals wins.”
Questions rolled around in her head. Ele had a deep-seated desire to know the ins and outs of things. She’d suppressed it over the years, allowing things to go unexplained as a way to keep her world smaller and more manageable. Fear sometimes lurked for her in the known rather than the unknown. If she suffered anxiety as a result of an unexpected occurrence, it was better than being afraid of something she should have expected. It exonerated her. After she watched the time expire and the teams huddle for water and then take their places for the shootout, she turned again to her brother.
“Is the pressure greater for the keeper or the person shooting?” She looked back to the field, her vision narrowing to just one player.
The lines of his body were both familiar and surprising. Her fingers curled into fists on her thighs as she remembered running her hands along the length of his back, tracing the rise and fall of sinew on his arms, rubbing her legs against his rock-hard ones. The man who had scooped her up in his arms mere hours ago differed from the athlete on the pitch. His jersey clung to the planes of his lean muscles.
He appeared focused but loose, relaxed in a way Ele had only recently discovered she experienced in the presence of a few people.
“I think most people would say the person shooting. The keeper isn’t meant to save every shot. You hope he can save one.”
They were second, and Rowan stepped up to the ball. She recalled her terse encounter with him. She didn’t imagine much fazed the team captain. He proved her right five seconds later as his shot sailed past the keeper into the back of the net. Everyone in the box exploded with cheers and hoots. But Ele remained in her seat, tense.
There were no dramatics for the next shots by both teams, and they were tied at two to two. Then, Tristan stepped away from the line of their team and walked to the penalty spot. Flooded with nerves, Ele leaned forward, dropping her elbows to her knees and covering her mouth with her hands.
“Your poker face is rubbish,” Jamie commented next to her, low enough so only she heard him.
Ele’s spine stiffened, and she quickly sat up but was still utterly zeroed in on Tristan below. With what looked like the most casual but natural motion in the world, he shot. The ball whizzed past the keeper’s head. The goalie didn’t even have a chance to move. The crowd erupted in a frenzy. He turned from the penalty area, facing his team. He paused, like it was for optimal viewing pleasure. Then, he crossed his arms over his chest, looked left—actually away from the box where Ele sat—and nodded. The whoops and bellows around her and in the stadium reached a crescendo. Ele remained completely still, overwhelmed by the noise, but the rest of the crowd descended into a mad chaos. Beside her, Jamie vibrated with enthusiasm. She wanted to ask him why, what was so different about this particular member of the team.
But then she heard one of the dignitaries behind her say, “Definite crowd favorite, our T-Dav.”
Our? It bothered her, more than she wanted it to. She didn’t want Tristan to belong to the collective. What she wanted was to stand up in the box, stomp her feet, cross her arms, and declare, Mine! She wanted that more than she could remember wanting anything.
But as she continued to observe him from her place in the stands, she realized the adulation fueled him. He appeared to be levitating on the pitch. While his teammates radiated intensity, he looked like he had already won. Whether it was confidence or faith, Tristan made a prediction with his body and expression. And she believed him. Even with the rise and fall of the cheers, Ele hardly watched the byplay between the keepers and penalty takers. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tristan.
Suddenly, the people in the box around her exploded in cheers and handshakes, hugs and back-pounding. Still, she kept her gaze on Tristan as he and the team bombarded their goalie, falling on the ground in a pile. The thrill of victory captured perfectly. Rowan and Tristan were the first to extract themselves from the celebration and console the losing team. He had a long conversation with one of the men, his hand on the guy’s neck, their heads close together. The man gave Tristan a fleeting smile before they both turned to make their way around the field.
Jamie touched her shoulder, and Ele startled, looking up at him.
“Ready?”
She blinked, waking from a trance, and stood. “Of course.”
Turning toward the door, she quickly inventoried the people around them. All of the National Football Federation members were there, and they barely noticed Jamie’s and Ele’s movements. She scooted around the row and took her first step to the exit when everyone’s attention shifted downward.
“Here they come,” someone said.
Ele looked at Jamie. He had stopped and turned around, heading back to the front of the box. The whole of the National Team stood on the pitch in a line in front of the delegation box. As if choreographed, the player on the furthest end performed a bow, and the rest of the team followed, like a row of dominoes. It was all for Jamie, and he donned his prince mask as they bowed. But when they finished, he stepped up onto a seat, raising himself above everyone else in the box. He spread his arms wide, like he was trying to embrace the lot of them. And then, because he was Jamie and he instinctively knew how to inspire his country, he bowed to them. It was poignant and heartfelt, and Ele found her eyes welling. The whole team cheered then, in appreciation and jubilation. Jamie threw his arms in the air, his pride and excitement palpable.
Ele chanced one last glance to the pitch below. The team peeled off, looping happily toward the changing room, tonight’s celebration the priority. But one player remained, attention focused upward. She was in the shadows, but she wasted no time in walking down the steps, into view. He saw her, but nothing in his face indicated recognition or acknowledgment. In fact, after the initial eye contact, he was careful to look beyond her, as if what he had been searching for wasn’t found. But she knew it had. Because, although no one else in the stands had seen it, his eyes sparkled with appreciation and promise. And she knew, later, when he came to find her, he would make certain he showed her.
A hand ghosted over her, pushing the hair from her face.
“Should I let you sleep?” Tristan’s voice filtered in, and Ele came awake all at once.
She peered up at him, welcoming the warmth of his hand on her. Chasing it, she sighed in contentment. Tristan sat on the side of her bed, continuing to stroke her hair, her neck, the edge of her cheek. Ele scooted closer to him, so her hip brushed against him. He edged nearer, and Ele rolled to her side, curling around him like a parenthesis.
“I tried to wait up,” she said, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.