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Chapter 241: Mirrors in the Tunnel Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 02:25:52 +0000 UTC. -> [Kevin De Bruyne POV]
As Kevin and the City squad emerged from the tunnel, the stadium didn’t just rise in volume — it tilted. Leaned. Like the weight of the crowd shifted forward to meet them.
From the press box above, the main broadcast feed was already live.
“…it’s everything you want in a top-of-the-table clash,” said Martin Tyler, voice calm but charged like a coiled spring. “A cold night, a packed stadium, and two teams with everything to play for.”
Beside him, Darren Fletcher spoke quicker, nerves just under the surface. “You’ve got arguably the best midfield matchup in the league here, Martin. Tristan vs De Bruyne, Kanté versus Yaya, and two very different systems about to go head-to-head.”
Everyone knew the truth, of course.
There was no real debate. Tristan Hale wasn’t just better than Kevin De Bruyne. It was night and day. One was already considered the best player on the planet in current form — an equal, or even a threat, to Messi and Ronaldo’s long-standing throne. The other was a rising star. Gifted. Intelligent. Still forming.
But the comparisons weren’t about ranking. They were about the similarities between the two young players cut from the some mold.
City hoped Kevin could one day reach that level by following a similar path — by watching, learning, copying. A pale reflection made brighter with time.
But that remained to be seen.
For now, there was only one player the world came to see. And one trying to catch up before he was too far behind.
As the camera panned wide, the formations flashed clean across the screen:
🦊 Leicester City – 4-2-3-1
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 Danny Simpson (RB)
🏰 Wes Morgan (CB)
🏰 Robert Huth (CB)
🚀 Christian Fuchs (LB)
🛡️ N’Golo Kanté (CDM)
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CDM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (CAM)
🏃♂️ Riyad Mahrez (RW)
🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (LW)
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
🔵 Manchester City – 4-3-3
🧤 Joe Hart (GK)
🚀 Bacary Sagna (RB)
🏰 Nicolás Otamendi (CB)
🏰 Eliaquim Mangala (CB)
🚀 Aleksandar Kolarov (LB)
🛡️ Fernandinho (CM)
🎯 Yaya Touré (CM)
🎩 Kevin De Bruyne (CAM)
⚡ Raheem Sterling (RW)
🎨 David Silva (LW)
🎯 Sergio Agüero (ST)
Down on the grass, Kevin drifted into position, settling into the half-space like a man scanning for exits and weak spots.
“Leicester unchanged. And why would they be? They’ve stormed through the league like they didn’t read the script.”
Next to Darren, Martin didn’t even look down. “Top of the table. Still unbeaten. It’s not a fluke anymore despite what some doubters say. It’s a problem.”
The stadium shook slightly as another chant rolled through the King Power. Loud. Brutal.
🎵 “You bought the league! You bought the league!”
“Where were you when you were sht?”*
“Sheikh Mansour, where’s your soul?”🎵
Fletcher gave a little breath of a laugh not mocking, just surprised.
“They don’t hold back here.”
“Never have,” Martin replied. “And they know this might be their season. You can feel it in the way this place breathes.”
Camera cut to Agüero, shoulders twitching in rhythm. Yaya rotated his wrists like he was winding an old engine. Joe Hart clapped once, loud enough to echo off the far stand.
Across the halfway line, Tristan was already moving. Jogging in place. Locked in. That switch — the one everyone talks about — had flipped. Mascot jokes gone. That smile replaced a serious face.
Fletcher picked up again.
“City in a 4-3-3 tonight. Yaya pushing forward, Fernandinho shielding, De Bruyne pulling strings behind Sterling and Silva. It’s front-foot football. But it’s risky.”
Martin leaned slightly forward, voice lowering like he didn’t want to break the tension.
“This is Pellegrini saying: ‘We’re not hiding. We’re going to try and beat them on their own pitch, with our own game.’ Brave. Maybe foolish.”
The camera swept to the dugout. Ranieri, arms folded across his padded coat, barked sharp instructions to the players. Mahrez nodded without looking away from the ball.
“They’ve turned counter-attacking into a system that can't be beaten or so it seems,” Fletcher said, his voice gaining energy. “And Tristan’s at the center of it. He’s not just creative — he’s unpredictable. You press, he spins. You sit off, he runs. You foul him…”
“…he’ll put it top corner,” Martin finished. “And if he doesn’t, Vardy’s already halfway gone.”
There was a short chuckle from Fletcher.
Down on the pitch, Kevin wasn’t listening. He already zoned out the noise. He had to in this game.
Scanning. Watching the spacing between the ball boys. Watching the Leicester players but mostly Tristan.
Tristan whispered something to Kanté, who nodded and adjusted his position slightly. No obvious gesture. No visible signal. But Kevin noticed.
Something was already being set up.
Something rehearsed.
Kevin didn’t feel fear. He didn’t let himself. But there was a thrum in his chest that told him this would be different. Harder which was to be expected. This was Leicester City, the most dominant team in the world right now.
The coin toss happened fast. Kompany got it right.
City to kick off.
“All eyes on midfield,” Martin said, no hint of drama in his voice. Just truth. “This might not be about goals. This might be about control.”
“Who dictates,” Fletcher added, “and who obeys.”
Kevin exhaled.
He’d spent years mastering the tempo of a game. Angles. Speed. Space.
But this wasn’t theory. This wasn’t tactics on a board.
This was Tristan Hale.
And tonight, he had to show he still belonged on the same pitch as him. He was at least in the same planet.
The players fanned out.
The referee glanced at both keepers.
Whistle to lips.
Kickoff was seconds away.
.
Kickoff came with a thump of leather, a quick exchange, and then a patient stretch of possession.
City moved it slow at first. Side to side. Line to line. Kolarov to Fernandinho. Otamendi to Mangala. No risks — just rhythm. A metronome of passes. Soft. Safe. But deliberate.
Kevin stayed central, gliding into the half-spaces. Watching. Measuring. Each time he received the ball, he dropped his hips, opened his body baiting pressure. The wind bit a little harder here than in Manchester. Colder. Raw. But the turf was fast. The ball zipped.
"You can feel City's plan already," Martin said, voice even but alert. "They're not going to rush this. They want control. They want tempo."
"It’s classic Pellegrini," Darren added, with a rising tempo of his own. "Patience. Short passes. Wait for the opening. And when it comes, strike fast."
The ball reached Kevin near the left channel. One touch to settle with the instep. One to feint inside with the sole. Then — with his head up — a sudden diagonal switch with the laces to Sterling on the far right.
It was pinpoint.
Sterling took it down on the run, cut inside with a stepover then tried to slide a low ball across the face.
Blocked.
Fuchs got a shin in. Ball pinged back into midfield. The crowd cheered like a goal was scored.
City reset.
Kevin didn't flinch. Just moved again. Another run. Another angle. He knew the rhythm. Two-touch, two-touch, burst.
His next sequence came tight. Quick give-and-go with Silva — left foot to right foot to outside flick. Then a reverse ball split through two midfielders, arrowing into Agüero's feet just outside the D.
Agüero turned, shifted left but Kanté snapped in. Took the ball like it was owed to him. Clean.
"That’s better from De Bruyne," Darren noted. "He’s finding those pockets. He sees the lanes most midfielders don’t."
Martin chimed in, more thoughtful. "But look at Leicester. One slip, and they spring the other way. That transition is venomous."
Kevin dropped deeper. Called for it again. Sagna obeyed.
The ball zipped across the turf. Kevin let it roll across his body, glancing once over his shoulder. Silva ghosted inside. Kevin clipped a weighted ball over the line.
Silva chested it down, cut inside — then lifted a cross into the box—
Deflected.
Wes Morgan’s forehead met it like a brick wall.
The crowd lifted again. Booing this time.
“YOUR JUST A CHEAP COPY!”
Kevin heard it. Didn’t react. He turned once more, scanning. His eyes saw lines others didn’t. Sterling darted. Kevin clipped a curling ball weighted, tight, clever.
But too slow.
Tristan stepped in like he’d read the script. Chest trap. Drop. Possession flipped in an instant.
"Tristan intercepts again!" Martin's voice rose with excitement.
"And you just can’t teach that," Darren said quickly. "That’s not defensive shape — that’s foresight. Tristan’s reading De Bruyne like he’s memorized his passing drills."
Of course Tristan knew more about Kevin’s playing style than Kevin did himself. He knew what he was thinking before Kevin did.
Kevin let out a breath through his teeth. He wasn’t making mistakes. He wasn’t misfiring.
But Tristan wasn’t reacting — he was pre-acting.
It felt like trying to solve a puzzle that kept shifting under his fingertips.
At the edge of the box, he watched Tristan flicked a one-touch to Mahrez — who slipped inside with that signature inside-out drop of the shoulder. The crowd surged.
"That could be trouble," Martin said. "And here they come again!"
Leicester broke.
Drinkwater snapped it wide. Mahrez tucked in. Fuchs sprinted down the flank like a warhorse.
Then the ball curled central again.
Tristan.
Eighth minute.
Here it came.
Kevin planted his boots.
"You feel it," Darren said, excitement in his voice. "This might be the first real wave."
"And the conductor’s picked up the baton," Martin added. "Tristan with space..."
Kevin stared across the pitch. Watched the spin on the ball. Hale’s posture. His hips.
It was coming.
And it wasn’t just City’s test.
It was his.
Tristan received the ball on the half-turn, just inside the center circle.
He let it roll across his body — then flicked it forward with his heel like it owed him money.
Fernandinho lunged.
Spin.
A full-body turn — tight as a screw, gone in a blink.
Tristan emerged facing goal. The stadium gasped.
Here came Yaya Touré — bigger, faster, closing hard.
Tristan feinted left.
Then right.
Then, with the outside of his boot, flicked the ball behind his planted leg and slipped between both midfielders like they didn’t exist.
Gasps turned into shouts.
“OH—OH MY—” Darren couldn’t finish.
The crowd was already rising.
Mangala charged — shoulder up, boots hammering the turf.
Too late.
Tristan chopped inside. Then outside. Then again — a triple feint in a blink. Mangala staggered, off balance.
Tristan burst through the seam.
Open grass.
Thirty yards from goal.
He looked up once.
Kevin recovering. Otamendi sliding across.
Didn’t matter.
Tristan opened his body — and from nowhere, hit it.
No windup. No pause. Just a flash of the right foot.
BOOM.
Top corner. Upper 90. The ball hit the net like it was angry at it.
The net snapped like a thunderclap.
The stadium detonated.
GOAL.
“OH MY GOODNESS!” Martin Tyler’s voice cracked through the noise. “TRISTAN HALE — THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS!”
The crowd was losing it — bodies lifted out of seats, limbs in the air, noise crashing like a wave against steel.
The Leicester bench exploded. Ranieri turned, hands to his face like a man who’d just seen a magic trick up close.
He couldn’t do that.
He knew he couldn’t.
Not that.
He watched as Tristan skidded to a stop near the corner flag, arms already raised to the sky.
A king summoning his crown.
The stadium bowed with sound.
His teammates surged toward him like a tidal wave. Vardy was first — tackled him mid-celebration in a bear hug. Mahrez followed, yelling something in French that was drowned out by the roar. Fuchs, Drinkwater, even Huth — all piling on, fists pumping, shirts tugged.
Fireworks of noise erupted from every section.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!”
“BETTER THAN RONALDO, MESSI, AND KEVIN TOO!” 🎵
Martin practically shouted over it, his voice breaking again.
“Take a picture of that! Frame it! Carve it in stone because I’m not sure we’ll ever see anything like it again!”
Darren laughed stunned, euphoric. “I’ve run out of words. What do you even call that? That’s not football — that’s art!”
Martin’s voice settled into reverence.
“He went through three players like wind through grass. And then hit that… a rocket disguised as a pass. Tristan doing Tristan things.”
He could thread a pass through five defenders.
He could dictate rhythm. He could shift a match’s tone.
But that?
That burst of speed, wrapped in elegance — that split-second destruction of physics and logic?
Kevin swallowed.
He couldn’t imagine pulling it off.
Not now. Not ever.
Kevin jogged slowly back to the center circle, chest rising, boots crunching over damp turf.
Around him, it was chaos. Leicester still bouncing. Their fans singing like they were already champions.
Pellegrini was at the edge of the technical area, barking orders.
Sagna was nodding. Fernandinho just stared ahead, hands on hips. Joe Hart bent to retie his boots — maybe for the fifth time that half.
“Settle!” the shout came from Yaya.
Kevin wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Tristan’s reading me like a bloody open book,” he muttered to Silva. “Before I even touch it, he’s there.”
David didn’t answer right away.
Then he leaned in.
“Then stop playing like how you usually do. Try something else you wouldn’t think of. I know it’s hard but we need you right now.”
“City have to regroup. That goal’s taken the oxygen out of them. They’re not playing badly — but against this Leicester team, good isn’t enough.”
“They’ve got to change the angles,” Darren added. “Speed it up. Mix the zones or take out Kevin.”
Pellegrini clapped hard once. Then again. Then pointed — first to the right, then to Fernandinho.
Kevin understood.
Drop deeper. Pull Tristan with you. Open space behind. Let someone else run the knife.
He nodded.
On the touchline, Pellegrini pulled his assistant in by the shoulder, voice low.
“He’s reading Kevin like an open book,” the assistant said, confirming what Pellegrini was already thinking. “It’s… it’s like he’s in his head.”
Pellegrini didn’t blink.
“I see it.”
“He’s not doing anything wrong,” the assistant added quickly. “It’s just—”
“Tristan’s doing everything right,” Pellegrini finished. He rubbed his chin, eyes scanning the pitch, where Kevin stood hands on hips, waiting for kickoff. “Give him twenty more minutes.”
“Twenty?”
“If he figures it out, we stay in the match. If not...”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Kevin was too important to shatter this early in the season. You didn’t sub a player like that in the first half unless you wanted headlines the next morning. He deserved time. Time to adjust.
“Tell Silva and Yaya to take more responsibility in buildup,” Pellegrini said. “Let Kevin float. He needs oxygen. Let him breathe.”
Back on the pitch, the whistle blew again.
The game resumed.
City tried to adapt. Silva and Yaya began drifting wider, probing Leicester’s shape, trying to peel open the glue between Kanté and Drinkwater. Just enough space, one touch, two touches — draw them out, crack the line.
And for a moment, it worked.
Silva popped up between the channels, floating like a chess piece with a mind of its own. One dip of the shoulder and he slipped between Mahrez and Simpson. Yaya stormed into the gap like a freight train in soft boots.
“Now that’s more like it,” Martin said, voice low and watchful. “City stretching the block… trying to break rhythm.”
“They need this,” Darren replied. “You can’t let Leicester defend flat. You have to pull their seams.”
Then came the first chance. Yaya clipped a disguised ball through the legs of Morgan, perfectly weighted for Sterling.
Raheem took a touch, stopped — then fired low from the edge of the box.
Blocked.
Fuchs didn’t flinch. Threw his body in front like it was instinct.
The crowd roared like it was a goal.
Another sequence: Silva again, this time lofting a delicate diagonal over the top toward Agüero, who darted in blindside.
Kanté jumped early — impossibly early — and stabbed it away with an outstretched toe.
“Unbelievable anticipation,” Darren said. “What a read by Kante.”
The King Power thundered in response.
🎵 “We’ve got no oil, we’ve got no cash — but we’ve got heart, and you’ve got flash!”
“Plastic club, empty ground — we’ll sing louder, pound for pound!” 🎵
Kevin adjusted again.
He started drifting deeper, easing into the spaces between his own lines. Not looking for the ball — looking for Tristan.
Trying to pull him. Stretch him. Draw him out of his comfort zone. Not into pressure, but into uncertainty. The dead space. Where players start to second-guess.
But Tristan didn’t bite.
Sometimes he followed. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he drifted alongside, almost indifferent. Just long enough to remind Kevin he was there.
A presence.
A hum behind the eyes.
Like a shadow that moved when you weren’t looking.
“You can feel it,” Martin said. “It’s not just a game of football — it’s a game of wills.”
“Like a chess master,” Darren added. “Every move from De Bruyne is being mirrored — but never matched one-to-one. Just close enough to disrupt the pattern.”
The crowd responded to every touch of Tristan’s boot with electricity.
A trap was always waiting. Always loading.
And the pressure — it wasn’t just physical.
It was mental.
In the 16th minute, Kevin finally caught a sliver of daylight.
Tristan hesitated. Not long — just half a heartbeat — but long enough. He followed Yaya Touré’s inside run a step too far, and Kevin felt it immediately. A ripple in the structure. A door cracking open.
He spun off the shoulder into the left channel — timing perfect.
Silva spotted it. One-touch pass. Clean. Sharp. Perfectly measured.
Kevin didn’t stop to think. Didn’t need to.
He let the ball run across his stride, then flicked it inside with a disguised touch — a reverse slip pass that split the line between Simpson and Huth.
It was the window he’d been searching for.
Finally.
Sterling latched onto it in full sprint, charging into the box with arms pumping, defenders chasing.
Cut inside.
Squared it across the six.
There was Agüero.
One touch. Side-footed. Low. Accurate.
Kevin already had his fists half-clenched. It was in—
NO.
Schmeichel exploded sideways — a blur of gloves and adrenaline. Full stretch. Fingertips.
Corner.
The City end rose together, a synchronized jolt of sound and hope.
Kevin bent at the waist, hands on knees, blowing out a sharp breath. FINALLY something at last. Even if they didn’t score, it brought them hope, no it brought him hope. He wasn’t useless in this match.
From the sidelines, Pellegrini stepped forward, arms wide like wings, motioning his team forward.
“Now we’re talking,” Darren said, voice lifted with belief. “That’s the thread City needed — and De Bruyne pulled it loose.”
Martin picked up quickly as Otamendi rose for the corner — a thunderous leap, the header flashing just over the bar.
“Much better from City,” Martin said. “But Leicester — they don’t panic. They absorb. Then they strike.”
Kevin turned, already jogging back into shape. He passed by Tristan — their shoulders almost brushing.
Tristan didn’t look rattled. He looked more surprised than anything else.
Kevin clenched his jaw harder. That was the moment. That was the chance. And even then — just fingertips had kept it out.
Still.
He’d broken the spell.
That mattered.
Across the pitch, Pellegrini glanced toward the bench. Fabian Delph was stretching — cautiously. Quietly.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
Kevin had shown something.
Just enough.
And maybe — just maybe — the balance had started to shift.
City barely had time to inhale before the pendulum snapped the other way.
Tristan dropped into his own half — back turned, gloves tugged, body loose. Fernandinho closed like a hammer.
Touch one — shoulder down, shield. Touch two — quick pivot, a half-circle toward touchline. Escape. Touch three — absolute violence.
A left-footed pass, no backlift — just timing. A low laser that didn’t just cut the lines — it sliced through reality.
It skimmed across the grass with venom. Curved just enough to miss one pair of legs. Then two. Then four.
“Look at that ball!” Martin cried, voice lifting like the crowd. “Look at the shape on that!”
Mahrez didn’t even break stride.
He dragged the pass into his path with the faintest flick — casual, like he was flicking lint off a shirt — then toe-rolled it past Kolarov, who lunged and missed air.
The crowd rose as one.
Mahrez took two more touches, then lashed a cross across the face of goal.
A blur of blue.
Vardy hurled himself like a missile at the six-yard box — studs outstretched — just a fraction away.
The net rippled… but from wind, not contact.
The King Power exploded.
“A STUD’S LENGTH!” Darren shouted. “A STUD’S LENGTH, MARTIN! THAT WOULD’VE LIFTED THE STADIUM OFF ITS FOUNDATIONS!”
Martin's voice cracked: “And he didn’t even look! Tristan never looked up! That pass was sent by satellite!”
“That’s not a through ball,” Darren wheezed, half-laughing, “that’s a threat letter! Certified. Air-dropped. Unstoppable!”
City scrambled to recover. Panic in every step.
Otamendi shoved Sterling forward. Sagna yelled at Fernandinho. Kolarov slapped the post.
They pressed higher, desperate to push Leicester back — to retake air, if not ground.
And then — a break.
A sloppy touch, a ricochet — the ball popped loose near midfield.
Kevin stepped into it like it was his moment. This was the one. Finally.
He scanned.
Space. Time.
Sterling was on the move again — peeling off Huth’s shoulder. The window opened.
Kevin lined up his signature. That whip-pass. The arcing volley. The one he could hit in his sleep.
And then—
He paused.
Just a breath. A twitch.
Hesitated.
And in that blink, Tristan arrived.
From nowhere. From nothing. Like a shape out of fog.
Silent.
Surgical.
He didn’t crash in. He slid. Angled his body, poked it clean with the inside of his boot, then immediately spun into possession.
The ball didn’t bounce. It stuck.
Gone.
The sound wasn’t a cheer.
It was a detonation.
The stadium shook.
Beer flew. Arms raised. A chant started before fans could breathe.
🎵 “You’re just a Tesco Tristan!”
“He sees it first — and takes it too!”
“Ooooh Tristan is haunting youuuu!” 🎵
“LISTEN to that!” Martin barked, barely keeping pace. “Tristan Hale — that’s not a tackle, that’s a theft!”
Fletcher was breathless. “And De Bruyne — he hesitated. That wasn’t nerves. That was instinctive fear. Tristan is in his head. He’s not chasing him. He’s reading him like a map.”
Down on the pitch, Kevin didn’t argue. Didn’t yell.
He just stood still — jaw tight, eyes tracking Tristan, who had already played the next pass and moved on.
He had seen the angle. He had seen the moment.
And he had been too late.
.
City tried to reset — but it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t composed. It was survival.
Silva and Yaya exchanged tight little triangles down the left — two touches, dragbacks, glances. Sterling burst the line again, darting behind Fuchs. Yaya found him with a clever inside slip.
The cross came early. Low. Dangerous.
Blocked.
Huth lunged like a wall made of bone. Thigh-first. No hesitation.
The ball cannoned back toward halfway. The crowd roared as if they’d scored.
Otamendi turned, red-faced, shouting at Fernandinho in wild gestures — pointing to shadows, to ghosts. Nothing was sticking.
And Kevin — still searching for rhythm — demanded the ball.
He got it.
Space now. Just a little. Enough to breathe.
He took one touch, then lifted his head.
He spotted the run.
Kolarov, high on the left. Alone. Calling.
Kevin snapped his hips and drilled a crossfield switch. That classic whip — low spin, slicing arc.
It sailed.
Overhit.
Too much juice.
Kolarov chased — hopelessly — and watched it bounce once, then skip out of bounds with a cruel finality.
The King Power howled.
🎵 “Tesco KDB, we’re laughing at you!” 🎵
Then came another chance. Another glimmer.
Kevin found the ball near halfway. He touched. Turned. This time, sure.
Silva darted into space. Hands up. Open channel. He was free.
Kevin passed.
Straight. To. Kanté.
Directly.
It wasn’t even close.
Kanté didn’t break stride. He just took the ball — like Kevin had handed it to him gift-wrapped — and turned away.
Kevin stopped.
He didn’t sprint back.
Didn’t even jog.
He just walked. Shoulders low. Chin down.
His hands went to his hips. Then dropped again.
No complaint.
No reaction.
Just the slow walk of a man suddenly aware the lights were too bright, the pitch too loud, the match too long.
Darren’s voice cracked slightly — just a hitch, like the air had thinned.
“That’s not exhaustion, Martin… That’s frustration. That’s doubt.”
Martin followed. “You can’t chart confidence on a stat sheet… but you can watch it drain. And De Bruyne’s… it’s leaking out by the second.”
On the sideline, Pellegrini stood motionless. His assistant leaned in, urgent now.
“He’s gone. Mentally. He’s not seeing the pitch anymore.”
Pellegrini didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the number 17 — jogging without conviction, shoulders dipped, eyes half-shut.
Then finally, quietly:
“Get Delph.”
Fabian Delph popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Shirt off. A nod to the fourth official.
The board went up at the 34th minute.
17 – OFF
18 – ON
And at that moment, he saw it.
Saw his number.
Felt it hit, low and hollow in the chest. Like biting down on ice.
Just a drop.
He jogged to the sideline slowly, almost out of muscle memory. No words. No eye contact. No fight.
The noise swelled behind him like rising floodwater. He didn’t blink.
He reached the bench and dropped into his seat like his body had no frame.
Delph passed by him. Slapped his shoulder. “Kevin. It’s just one of those days, mate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Kevin didn’t respond.
He leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Then grabbed the towel.
Pulled it over his head like a curtain dropping on a play he didn’t want to finish.
Then — with a flash of frustration — his boot lashed out.
Thud.
One bottle clattered into the seat ahead. Another spun under the bench, hissing as it rolled.
Nobody said a word.
No coach scolded him.
No teammate made a joke.
Even the staff — clipboard in hand — just let it happen.
He was broken.
He’d done everything right.
Every angle calculated. Every touch weighted. Every run timed.
He’d trained for this. Dreamed of this. Not the match. This matchup. Him and Tristan.
Every decision Kevin made — Tristan had already solved. Every pass, tracked. Every movement, anticipated. Every instinct, mirrored and beat.
Kevin had given everything — and it wasn’t enough.
And the worst part?
He knew he’d played well.
And it still hadn’t mattered.
He pressed the towel tighter over his face, until the fabric dampened with his breath.
He couldn’t see the crowd now.
Couldn’t hear the chants anymore.
But the feeling?
It didn’t go away.
.
I have part 3 completed soon later at night.
Comments
Jackie
I feel bad for Kevin
