3-0.
I have never heard a sound like it. It wasn't just a cheer for a goal. It was a roar of recognition. A roar of pride. A seventeen-year-old boy, one of their own, had just scored his first senior goal, and it was a thing of absolute beauty.
I was on my feet, roaring myself, my fists clenched. I caught Nya's eye as he was mobbed by his teammates. He was beaming, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his young face. I gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded back, the message clear. I belong here.
In the stands, the old man from the entrance was on his feet. He wasn't crying, not yet. He was just standing there with both arms raised, his face turned up to the sky, as if offering a prayer of thanksgiving.
Three rows behind him, a young woman in a Palace shirt was screaming Nya's name at the top of her lungs, her face bright red.
