On the throw in, Tristan stepped with renewed energy. And it wasn’t coming only from him. His teammates challenged every pass, and within three, possession shifted to them.
The greatest challenge when forming a National Team was finding and capitalizing on chemistry. This group didn’t play together year-round. Often, their club teams were great rivals. Knowing where players would show on the pitch took longer to figure out.
When the ball came to Tristan, he immediately looked for Caleb’s run. He knew what Caleb would do and where he would show—the advantage of playing with him for the last year. Tristan slotted the ball through the defenders—a perfect setup for Caleb to do his thing. But Caleb wasn’t in the flow of the game yet, so he took a quick, ill-advised shot on the goal. Tristan tried to keep his frustration locked down. France must have been experiencing the same sense of hurriedness because, off the counter, they forced a shot, too, allowing their keeper to catch the ball and put it into play quickly.
Hastings, the midfielder, carried the ball up the pitch with Caleb and their other winger Josco making runs. Tristan watched the play unfold, trailing the action. Hastings sent the ball forward, through the center and left-backs. Josco, lightning fast, chased the ball. He never stopped his run. Instead, he centered it with his left foot, sending the ball through the air and across the box—in a perfect position for Caleb to slot it in.
Be calm, be calm, be calm.
Like Josco, Caleb never broke stride. He volleyed the ball out of the air. It careened over the keeper’s head in a spotty trajectory, wobbling under the crossbar and dropping into the goal. For one glorious millisecond, silence descended in Tristan’s head. An unbelieving gut check before the chaos of belief settled. Then, he reacted, racing over to the dog pile of his teammates. Tristan disentangled himself from the melee, taking several of his teammates with him. The exhaustion lifted.
Tristan attempted to calculate how much time might be remaining. He exchanged another look with Rowan. There wasn’t much that could draw a smile from their captain. Tristan was among the few, but it seemed being mere moments away from winning the Cup made Rowan seem like an effervescent human being.
“Caption this, Tris!” Rowan said, pushing Tristan on both of his shoulders, sending him a half-step backward.
Tristan smiled broadly, but no words came to mind. He jogged over for the start of the play.
Then, France kicked off, and they attacked, stepping to the ball in an effort to retain the lead, not comfortable giving the other team any room to maneuver. When the whistle blew three times, Tristan had the ball at his feet, having just won it. He bent, scooping it up right before he was tackled to the ground by Rowan.
Later, if asked to describe those first five minutes following the end
of the game, he might be blank. He would remember the noise, the slickness of skin, confetti, and lights. The hugs, fist bumps, laughter. Rowan’s teeth, which Tristan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. The hive of activity, the rush of families onto the pitch. He struggled to center himself, to appreciate the moment. When his brain came back online, the stage had been erected, a yellow carpet laid, an archway built.
He waited with his team as the ceremony began. The trophy was marched to its stand amid cheers. Then, the parade of dignitaries commenced. He watched with little interest. He should have been able to name the people or at least their positions, but he never paid attention to those kinds of things. But then he saw Robert standing on the side of the stage, like a bull waiting for the gate to open so he could charge into the arena. It was then Tristan knew his princess would be stepping onto the pitch.
My princess?
It was his first coherent thought since the three whistles had blown. That it was about Ele surprised him. What about achieving one of the most elusive goals for any footballer? It flitted across his mind, fleeting and confusing, before he was shepherded into a line with his team as the awards ceremony began.
Suddenly, she was there, walking with Juliana by her side. He couldn’t help his double take when his gaze tripped down the length of her. The regal carriage she was unable to shake carried her along the uneven ground, her heels causing her to move with care. The white of her pants brought out the colors of her football jersey—his team’s football jersey. She looked so unlike he’d expected that he knew his eyes were wide and his jaw slack. He didn’t need Rowan’s tap on his chin, but it helped all the same.
“Close it, big mouth,” Rowan said softly, laughter woven through his words.
Tristan was unable to tear his gaze from her as she stepped up onto the stage.
He’d watched the World Championship Cup, every four years, gathered around his family television. He’d dreamed of this moment, pictured himself standing in line with the members of his team, waiting for the medal to be placed around his neck.
The noise buffeted the proceedings. The speakers muffled rather than amplified, so the disembodied voice was indistinguishable. The individual awards were announced. Tris watched as Ele hugged and spoke to the recipients. Then the officials. She was all princess and it was a gut check for him. He’d never seen her as she was right at this time, and he realized he only understood one tiny facet of her large life. He watched the French team claim their prizes with a more discerning eye. These were the last minutes he would see Princess Eleanor in person.
Rowan was first. Tristan followed behind his Skipper and best friend. He was ever cognizant of making his way toward Ele. He accepted hugs, congratulations, and his medal until he reached her. Her smile shifted when their eyes met. It had been blinding before, but Tristan realized it had been impersonal. The one she graced him with was for him only. He’d seen it the night she snuck out of her room, at Navy Pier, after almost every kiss. As he stared up at her, he remembered and appreciated it. It grounded him.
Then, she leaned toward him, but rather than the stiff, proper hug she’d been dealing out, she embraced him. Her hands rested momentarily on the nape of his neck, her nails digging in hard for a split second before she returned them to his shoulders.
Her voice filtered into his rattled brain. “So proud of you. And happy for you.”
He should have taken into consideration the crowd, the cameras, her fears. But in that moment, he could only think about celebrating this victory with her. Without any thought, his hands slipped to her waist, and he picked her up off the raised stage and spun her around. She must have forgotten about everything around them, too, because she merely laughed. He set her back down. He was allowed one more hug.
“I’m glad you were here,” he told her before the line forced him forward.
As he stepped from the stage, he caught Robert’s penetrating gaze and fierce frown. Tristan was already berating himself for his impulsiveness, but then Robert winked at him. It was so quick and unexpected that Tristan laughed. He joined his team for the party, basking in the win, Robert’s approval, and Ele’s presence.
And suddenly, it was over. The fans exited the stadium, and their contingent gradually dwindled.
“Ready?” Rowan asked. “I’ve got to do some press.”
Tristan indulged in another look around. Confetti littered the pitch, and there were stragglers in the stands. The dignitaries had long exited.
“Don’t you have someone to see?”