Their keeper sees me. Charges.
But I’ve already made the decision.
Inside of the boot. Calm. Low. Left corner.
The net ripples like it’s sighing for me.
I stumble—just for a second—because even when I clear my mind, Marlow slips in like smoke under a locked door.
So I do what Coach Saunders told me:
Breathe in.
Visualize.
Focus.
Net.
Ball.
Nipples. Shit!
Net.
Ball.
Now.
I also say a silent prayer that my wife is watching.
Then it happens. That half-second of nothing—pure silence before the sound rushes in.
The crowd erupts.
I jog back down the pitch, chest rising, lungs burning, but my mind?
Clear.
Every pass. Every step. Every fucking second of that play felt like breathing again.
“Goooooal!” echoes through the stadium, followed by a wave of laughter and chanting—“Fragilé! Fragilé!”
Some joker on the team told a reporter my last name was straight out of the movieA Christmas Story.
“Must be Italian,” the headline read. So now whenever I score, Fragilé is what they chant.
Idiots.
I wanted a cool American Nickname.
But I don’t care. Not right now.
Because in this moment, no one’s asking me to move on.
No one’s telling me to let her go.
I’m not being haunted or gutted or fucking left behind.