The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a clean, crisp stillness in the air. The floodlights cast long, dramatic shadows across the grass, which was torn and scarred by ninety-plus minutes of fierce athletic combat.
Ethan stood right where he had scored the winning goal, wearing his muddy jersey and his father’s faded blue armband, which was now stained with dark earth and sweat. He was holding the match ball—scuffed, wet, and bearing the official tournament logo—in both hands, staring down at it with a quiet, peaceful expression.
