Ninety minutes.
That's all it would take to ruin my life.
It's the final game of the season — we're tied at 1–1 — and the people are cheering as if we'd already won.
Thirty seconds left on the clock.
All I have to do is pick up a harmless, easy shot from midfield.
The ball rolls slowly toward me at a snail's pace.
I bend down.
My gloves are on.
The stadium is silent.
And somehow, I miss it.
It glides between my legs.
Trickles.
Crosses the goal line like it's giving a polite good-bye to the stadium.
The other team cheers as if they'd won the World Cup.
The crowd gasps, then boos.
My captain glares at me like I'd just kicked his dog.
Our coach buries his head in his hands and makes some comment about "new hobbies" and "chess club."
The whistle blows.
We lose.
As I'm walking toward the tunnel, my phone is already buzzing with messages.
I know without checking: the clip of my failure is online.
I can practically hear the captions: "Worst Goalkeeper of the Year", "My Grandma Saves Better", "The Tragedy of Leo Vargas"
I'm half-listening to my captain's rant when—
WHAM!
Something slams into the back of my head.
I lurch forward, squinting at the soccer ball that has just rolled beyond my toes.
It isn't even our match ball.
It's neon green, with large bubble letters reading: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ETHAN!
I turn just as a group of eight-year-olds behind the chain-link fence gawk in shock, one of them with a half-eaten cupcake.
Then everything goes black.
I wake up on a wooden bench. Socks half-on. My captain stands over me, already yelling at me about "team spirit" and "no more stupid mistakes."
Back in the locker room, there lies that familiar smell of a stale sports drink in the air.
And I glance at the clock on the wall.
Kickoff is fifteen minutes away.