You know how sometimes you just need a good swift kick to the arse to get your head on straight?
Well, apparently all it took was one bloody bad kick for me to change my entire goddamn life.
***
“Conor!”
“Over here!”
As I made my way out of the tunnel, I could hear them before I could see them—the press, the fans—the lot of them, clamoring for my attention. As support striker for Stoningham F.C. the past few years, I’d grown used to it—particularly over the last season. We’d been climbing the ranks for most of the season, closer to our goal of being promoted to the Premier League. And the closer we got, the more intense the focus on our team became. The more my role within it became critical, scrutinized. It could be enough to make any man buckle under the weight of it all.
Aye, who was I kidding? I fucking lived for the attention.
The energy in our stadium, Barrington Park—hearing my name, all eyes on the pitch as I worked my magic up and down it—it was electrifying. Addictive.
The pressure to win? I could handle it.
I gave a wave and a broad smile to the crowd, eyes instinctively scanning the crowd for my father out of habit, despite knowing I wouldn’t find him there. Instead, my gaze landed on one particularly stunning blonde woman, eyeing me with a similar smile from a few rows up. I was fairly certain I’d seen her at the last match—something about her seemed familiar. Acknowledging her stare with a nod of my head, I made a mental note to look for her later on.
After all, if this match went as well as the last few, I’d have plenty of reason to celebrate. And what better way to celebrate than with some hot woman’s legs wrapped around me?
But I knew victory wasn’t likely to come as easily tonight.
I wandered over to join Arnie Brent, Stoningham’s main striker, on the side of the field. The two of us had a cordial enough relationship, though at times, I wondered if he felt threatened by my presence—Conor Kelly, the younger and more aggressive player, hot on his heels and hungry for the prime spot.
There was no denying the man was a football legend, but this season he’d begun to show his age—especially after that rough goal shot last week. Even now, I could see the strained look on his face as he went through his usual pregame calf stretches.
“Hey… how’s the knee tonight?”
Arnie grimaced before standing upright again. “Have to admit, it’s kind of shit. Just need some extra PT this week to work out the kinks.”
I slapped him on the back. “Sure thing, mate… you’ll bounce back soon enough.” Inwardly, though, I felt my energy building. It was time to show them all—the fans in the stands, all of my critics, our club manager—that I was second to no one.
But that wasn’t the only issue at hand tonight.
I glanced across the field at our opponents, Norton United. Our two teams had been locked in a dead heat all season—tonight’s match and this team were the only two things that stood between us and promotion to the Premier League. Once there, it was only a matter of time before one of the top tier teams made me an offer. Tonight had to go well.
But now, looking at Arnie, I found myself feeling less than confident. Like it or not, we both needed to be at the top of our game tonight.
“Ya boys ready?” Our goalkeeper, Ron Tupper, now approached, ball in hand. A towering mass from Wales, he’d been a key player behind Stoningham’s rise over the past few years. “Come now, Brent… all you did was pull a hammy. Man up and let’s do this, right?”
Arnie finished one last stretch, chuckling. “Alright, man. I’m ready.” He glanced over at me. “How ‘bout you, kid?”
I smirked at him, turning to walk out onto the pitch. “I’ve always been ready.”
***
Eighty-two minutes later, I was standing midfield, waiting for the cheers to die down from the guest stands following Norton United’s last goal. The score was now tied up at 2-2, and every single goal had been hard won. I could see the intensity on the faces of my teammates, our manager…the crowd. We only had three minutes left in the match, and we needed every single one of them to count.
I glanced ahead at Arnie—hunched over, rubbing at his kneecap, the toll of the match playing out across his features.
Fuck it.
The ball was back in motion, making its way towards the center of the pitch. I sprang into action, racing past Arnie to meet the ball. I felt it connect with my foot, electric, as I sidestepped a few of the Norton defensive players on my way down the field towards the goal. It was within range now, and I could hear the noise from the crowd building with each step.
Dodging left, then right, I made it past a few more blocks, even those wearing the familiar red kits of my own team. I knew they were all wondering what the hell Conor Kelly was doing, their second striker taking the lead.
Soon enough, though, they’d be thanking their fucking lucky stars that I had. Relying on an aging, injured striker wouldn’t secure us this win, but I could. And I was done holding myself back from taking what was mine.
As a swarm of green-clad Norton players came towards me, I heard Ian McCann, our left midfielder, calling for me to pass the shot—but I ignored him, miraculously finding a gap to slip through the green barricade.
I could taste it already… I had this.
Then everything went silent, my senses blocking out everything but the net and the burly Norton goalkeeper before me. Drawing my leg back to strike, I felt a sudden, powerful woosh come at me on the right—then blinding pain, as something struck hard against my outstretched ankle.
Almost in slow motion, I felt my leg buckle, and I crumpled to the ground in agony. Then the noise from the crowd and the players suddenly cranked way up, coming at me all at once as I lay there—eyes squinched shut, struggling to catch my breath. Pain washed over me, radiating from my ankle, and I knew immediately—this was bad. I heard a whistle, then voices as footsteps thundered towards me on the field. Who had the ball?
“Kelly… you ok, mate?”
“Conor, stay still… med team’s grabbing a stretcher.”
“Fuck me, look at his ankle… is that bone?”
I didn’t say anything, still in shock as I felt myself being loaded onto the stretcher a few moments later, carried across the field like a fucking failure. I opened my eyes a bit before we cleared the pitch, my gaze drifting again to the blonde woman from earlier. But this time, there was no flirty, sexy smile there to greet me. She was holding her phone in front of her face, snapping photos of my misery like everyone else.
I turned my head away in disgust, shutting my eyes again as the noise slowly became more muffled as we passed through the tunnel. This should have been my victory. Now all I could see were the social posts flashing across my mind, floating out into the ether.
Conor Kelly, Second Striker of Stoningham F.C.… misses his shot, once again...
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I LOVED this book and finished it in like 3 days! Sports romance with a bit of spice and a lot of tension…yes please! This was the first book I’ve read by Farrah Jane and I’m a huge fan!" Morgan J., Amazon Reviewer
