Chapter 1

The sweat drop traced down the outline of my face as I watched on anxiously. This was it. This was everything that I had worked hard to accomplish and dedicated countless hours and years of my life. All of it culminated in this one penalty kick to be taken by my teammate Isaac Thomas. With bated breath, I watched as he finally finished his breathing routine and stepped forward. With a sudden burst, he ran towards the soccer ball planted on the penalty spot and nailed it with all his power. It was in slow motion as everyone held their breath; if we got this, match and advance to the Championship. Isaac held our hopes and dreams out by all eleven of us... and sailed it over the bar. 

Devastation crept in, and I felt sorrow like I had never felt. Isaac stood in disbelief, and our teammates could only hold their heads in agony. It was over, just like that. I could only watch on in shock as the other team started celebrating. We needed this goal to force a penalty shootout since they were already up by one. 

Eventually, after who knows how long, the coach for our team came toward us and started comforting us one by one. When he got to me, he paused. I could tell he wanted to give me words of encouragement like the other guys, but it was different. This was my last season. The doctors said that my knees were already gone even before it started, but I pushed myself through with willpower and pain medication, but I could tell. I might not be able to walk properly again, let alone run. So, this grizzled old coach took my head and brought it into the gap between his shoulder blades. A hug. And a shield. Finally protected from the view of my teammates, I let the tears fall freely down my cheeks. Sometimes, I envy the younger players for their allowance to express their emotions, but being the Captain and 36 years old, I have no such luxury. After all, a captain not only represents himself and the club but also is the rock on which those emotional idiots can lean on. 

But here, in the end, shielded by my Coach's body, I could finally grieve. Grieve for what could have been and for what had been. Unlike others, I found my passion and calling much later. I was always an intelligent lad, never the smartest in the school, but more often than not, the smartest in the room. Due to this, I coasted through my school life, not putting much effort into studying or doing my homework but still passing with As and Bs in all my classes. It was a sluggish existence until my sophomore year of High School when I discovered what I loved: Sports. I joined the football team on a whim, and for the first time since I was a kid, I felt the joys of youth and hard work. Working with your team to accomplish a goal, shedding blood, sweat, and tears with a brother beside you. I had never felt more alive. But as the years progressed, things took a turn for the worse. My father suddenly passed away from a heart attack at just 49 in my Senior season, and my mother was swallowed by grief. My sister turned to partying and drinking, which led to late nights when I had to drive and get her from the strangest places. 

Seeing these things, I'm proud to say that I realized it was time to step up and be the man my family desperately needed. So, I quit the football team and got a job working at Dominoes. I started studying late into the night to begin my college education. I needed a degree quickly and in a field that would provide a steady income to be financially secure. My mom retained her job as a teacher, but they did not make enough for the bills my six-figure dad had left us. I chose accounting mostly because math had always been the easiest for me. 

So, my entire Senior year was spent working and studying; I lost touch with my friends and teammates as I kept my head down for the grind. Eventually, they gave up on me one by one, and I was all alone. Three years later, I graduated college with my bachelor's degree and immediately got a job at an accounting firm I had interned with. So began five years of crunching numbers and living with my mom and sister to help pay the bills. Sometime along the way, my sister met a boy named Chris and moved out with him. They would party together, and he introduced her to the world of narcotics. Oh, my wrath. I had worked hard and sacrificed for this family without ever hearing a word of thanks or gratitude, suffering for the dreams and joy I had left broken in my wake, and she had chosen a road of drugs and couch surfing with her boyfriend. I wanted to think that I would be understanding and try to get the help she needed, but at the time, I was filled with constant resentment and bitterness over the choices I had to make. So we had our first and last argument.

When the screaming had quietened down, and the door slammed as she walked out, I could hear the sobbing of my mother on the couch. The feeling that overtook me then was something I swore to never feel again for the rest of my life: Shame. If you truly love someone, I think the most shameful thing you can ever do is make them cry because of you. So, as I comforted my mother, I let it all go. I never argued with my sister again. No matter how late she would come home or when Mom would lend her money repeatedly. I never said a word. Maybe I should have; who knows? When I turned 26, they found her dead body in the bathroom of a party. Overdose was the final cause of death.