Between Two Goals
Yazar
Ayomide Babade
Okur
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47
The Weight of History
Millbrook, 1980
The roar of the crowd carried across the worn bleachers, a thunder rolling over Millbrook’s one and only football pitch. Dust rose beneath the players’ cleats, mingling with the thick September heat.
On one side of the field, the Millbrook Falcons, desperate and determined, clung to their two-goal lead. On the other, the Ridgeway Royals, the team that seemed blessed by fate, waited with a kind of calm confidence that bordered on eerie.
It always came down to this. Every year. Same rivals, same stakes.
Somehow, no matter the grit, no matter the fight—the Royals always found a way to win.
“Keep pressing!” the Falcons’ captain shouted, voice cracking with urgency. Sweat dripped from his brow, his chest heaving as he pushed his team forward.
The scoreboard glowed: 2-0. For a moment, just a moment, the impossible seemed within reach.
But then, as though the game itself bent to fate, the Royals struck back. A clean cross from the right, a thundering header into the net: 2-1.
The crowd erupted. The Falcons’ lead began to tremble.
Minutes later, another strike curled past the desperate hands of their keeper: 2-2. Groans rippled through the stands.
All eyes turned to Daniel Hayes, the Falcons’ famous striker, the boy the town swore was destined for greatness. Fire burned in his veins as he demanded the ball.
This was his moment. His destiny.
The clock ticked into the final stretch. Daniel danced past one defender, then another, his boots cutting through the dust like blades.
The goal opened before him, wide and waiting. He drew back his leg, the crowd holding its breath.
The ball flew, a perfect strike—
And slammed into the post with a hollow, heartbreaking thud.
Before the Falcons could recover, the Royals countered. A swift break, a dazzling pass, and a shot that found the back of the net. Three-two.
The whistle blew.
Silence swept over the Falcons’ side of the stands. On the other half, the Royals’ fans screamed in triumph.
Daniel Hayes dropped to his knees, chest heaving, the weight of failure pressing down on him once again. Once more, the Falcons had fought with heart.
Once more, the Royals had walked away with victory.
And once more, it felt like magic.
2025
The photograph had faded, but the smiles remained. A boy of nineteen grinned into the camera, a ball tucked under his arm, teammates crowding around him with weary faces and dirty jerseys.
They had lost, of course—everyone in Millbrook knew how that story ended—but Daniel Hayes’s smile shone like a sun that refused to set.
Jennifer Hayes stared at the picture on the mantel, her fingertips brushing the glass. Her father’s grin radiated a stubborn joy, even in defeat.
Next to it sat another frame: Jennifer at four years old, sitting proudly on his lap in her first jersey, his large hands steadying her tiny shoulders. A timeline of photos stretched along the wall, five years old, nine, fourteen, and now nineteen, each one proof that she had inherited his love for the game.
Jennifer looked every bit her father’s daughter—stubborn chin, sharp features, a gaze that carried both defiance and dreams.
Her father had been meant to be the best. Everyone said so.
But the Royals… They had always found a way to win. Their golden boy had grown into the town’s golden man—the mayor himself now.
Meanwhile, Daniel Hayes had also retired from playing, trading boots for a whistle.
After his wife died of lymphoma, he had raised Jennifer and her sister alone. He poured all of his unfinished dreams into his eldest daughter, and she had taken them to heart.
Jennifer had loved the game from the moment she could walk. It was impossible not to, when she had grown up with a ball at her feet and her father’s steady encouragement behind her.
Their team was underfunded, jerseys faded, nets patched more times than she could count. Yet in Millbrook, a few hours outside of New York City, Coach Hayes remained respected.
People knew his heart. They knew his fight.
The mayor, on the other hand, seemed obsessed with outshining him. Everything Daniel did, the mayor mirrored—only flashier, wealthier, shinier.
He had money. They had grit. And somehow, his team still couldn’t play.
“Jennifer!”
Her sister’s voice echoed down the stairs, sharp enough to snap her from her thoughts.
Jennifer Hayes sat at the kitchen table, staring at the pictures, while a plate of toast cooled untouched in front of her. Her ash-colored eyes glared at the food before sliding it away with a sigh of defeat.
She raked a hand across her forehead, pushing back strands of her brunette hair, before twisting it into the messy bun she always wore for practice. Her jersey, faded from too many washes, the stitching frayed at the seams, hung a little loose on her frame, but she wore it like armor.
“Jane,” she called, “you’re going to make me late for practice!”
At last, her younger sister clomped downstairs. Jane had the kind of goofy grace only a child could carry off, mismatched socks, a pink headband, and a stubborn tilt to her chin.
She had been only three when their mother died. Too young to remember, too young to ask the questions Jennifer still carried.
“I am not going to that scrappy pitch today,” Jane announced, arms folded dramatically. “I told Dad I’m staying with Linda.”
Her best friend. Of course.
“Fine,” Jennifer sighed, grabbing her keys. “But you’re making me late.”
Jane smirked, sliding into the passenger seat. “Okay, Mom.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop nagging.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. They were barely out of the driveway before Jane piped up again.
“Wait…did you even finish your driving lessons?”
“Zip your mouth, Jane,” Jennifer muttered, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “If I kill us, you probably deserve it.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. “What the—?!” She shoved in her AirPods, muttering under her breath.
Jennifer laughed, the sound easing the tension of the morning.
Millbrook stretched around them, a town stitched together by history and neighbors who knew everything about everyone. Every street corner carried memories, every face a story.
Crime was rare, gossip wasn’t.
She dropped Jane at Linda’s, watching her little sister skip off as if she owned the world. Then Jennifer turned the car toward the place that mattered most.
The pitch.
It looked the same as it always had—half-worn grass, patches of dirt, lines faded beneath the sun. History whispered in every blade.
Her father had bled on this field. The mayor had risen from it.
Now it stood divided down the middle: one half for Coach Hayes and his team: The Underdogs. The other for the mayor’s: Royals.
Jennifer parked on their side, immediately spotting her teammates pounding laps around the field, shoes thudding against the ground in rhythm. Their voices called out encouragement, lungs burning, sweat glistening.
“Jennifer!” her father’s voice rang out across the pitch. He sat on the bench with his clipboard in hand, gaze sharp. “You’re late. Shoes on. Now.”
“Sorry, Dad!” She dropped onto the bench beside him, tugging on her cleats. “Jane, you know how she is.”
He exhaled through his nose, patience thinning. “Where is she?”
“Linda’s.”
Mr. Hayes groaned. “I didn’t say she could go—she just told you that.”
Her brow lifted. “She’s your daughter.”
“Yeah, and apparently your sister too,” he muttered.
“Okay!” Jennifer said, hopping to her feet. “See you, Coach.”
She sprinted to join her teammates, the familiar rhythm of adrenaline already building in her veins. The sun pressed hot against her shoulders, the smell of grass and dust filling her lungs.
Every step reminded her why she loved the game, why she needed this win.
She couldn’t let history repeat itself.
And as she glanced across the pitch to the rival side, where whispers of the Royals’ team drifted through the air, she felt it, like the charge before a storm.
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