The Night of the Injury
The crack of the tackle echoed louder than the rain. Liam's ankle twisted beneath him, bone grinding like gravel. He collapsed, clutching his leg, cold mud seeping into his jersey. Silence swallowed the pitch. No birds. No chatter. Just the steady drumming of rain on the ground.
Not now. Not when they're watching.
Above him, the stadium lights blurred into halos. Teammates' voices warped like they were underwater.
"Stay down, mate!"
"Medic!"
He tasted iron. He had bitten his tongue. His fingers dug into the turf, grass blades snapping beneath his nails.
This can't how it ends.
Rehab and Reflection
The physio room reeked of antiseptic and despair. Liam traced the frayed edge of his father's orange Ajax scarf—threadbare from years of clutching during matches.
"Play smart, not loud," his dad used to say. He had passed away from lung cancer when Liam was twelve. "Wear this when you forget why you fight."
Needles pricked Liam's calf during electrotherapy. He closed his eyes and drifted back to Rotterdam winters: icy pitches, his breath fogging up the air as he mimicked Wesley Sneijder's passes against a chain-link fence.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The rhythm of ambition.
Femi found him after the session, holding out a mango smoothie.
"Bakker says you're ahead of schedule."
Liam flexed his ankle. Pain sparked through it.
"Ahead of what? Sitting?"
Femi's smile faltered. "They need you. I need you."
The scarf tightened in Liam's grip.
Watching from the Sidelines
From the stands, Ajax's matches became symphonies of frustration. Liam inhaled the tang of stale popcorn and tension, tracking Femi's frantic overlaps in the 3-4-3 formation.
Too wide. Too late.
His fingers twitched. Phantom-passing to spaces Femi missed.
At halftime, Coach Bakker sat beside him, rain misting both their jackets.
"Your voice could steady them," Bakker said.
Liam stared at the scarf knotted around his wrist.
"I'm not a cheerleader."
"No," Bakker replied. "You're a lighthouse."
That night, Liam rewatched old games, pausing at each assist. Silent. Precise.
The scarf hung from his bedpost, fraying more by the day.
The Return
First contact drill. Liam's heart jackhammered as Yassine charged. He pivoted, shielding the ball with his body.
Rotten orange pulp under his boots.
The scent of his father's orchard.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
In the dressing room before the Feyenoord match, silence fell as he entered. Femi met his gaze and nodded.
Liam walked past him, hand brushing his shoulder—a firm press of calloused palm to damp fabric.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
He tied the scarf tighter.
Redemption on the Pitch
The semifinal was tension in motion. Josip and Femi played side by side—an unlikely pairing. And yet, it worked.
Then came the final. The storm of it all.
He remembered Rikken, ghosting through spaces. The disallowed goal. The chaos of extra time.
He remembered Femi calling from the bench, pointing to a gap. Josip cutting in. Liam receiving the pass.
Shot. Blocked.
Yassine finishing the rebound.
Liam didn't score. He didn't even assist. But he was the hinge of the moment. And that was enough.
The Message
Sitting in his dorm room. Rain tapped the windows.
Liam's phone buzzed.
Bakker: Are you ready for Spain?
He looked at the scarf, now more thread than fabric, and typed:
Liam: Always.
Outside, a streetlamp flickered.
Somewhere, a boy kicked a ball against a fence.
Clang. Clang. Clang.