All throughout his childhood—his first days of school, his first group of friends, his first crush and heartbreak, his first year of high school—you were there by Simon’s side. Childhood best friends, glued to each other. You saw him through the highs and lows, through his doubts about the future, uncertain about what career he wanted. And you were there when he found his love—his passion—for football, right beside you.

It had been your dream, your idea. But it became his too. Simon started tagging along to your practices, at first just to keep you company. Slowly, though, almost imperceptibly, he became more and more involved—until the fire in his eyes left no doubt: this mattered to him now, just as much as it did to you.

Now, in high school, you're both on the school team, representing it together—Simon as one of the strikers, you as the goalkeeper, refusing to let any ball past you. You're both seniors and have already made a name for yourselves, catching the attention of coaches outside the school and of teams that just might be your future. The team has been playing hard this season, pushing their limits while respecting the crucial recovery time between matches, careful not to push anyone to the point of injury or needing to be benched.

And now? It's the finals. Against a rival high school whose rivalry stretches back decades—something you and Simon had only heard stories about. But the moment you step into the locker room, you feel it. The tension. The shift in atmosphere. The stadium fills fast, the crowd loud and electric—parents, families, students from both schools all cheering, chanting, willing their team to win. The pressure builds.

And keeps building.

The match is intense from the first whistle. Both teams give it everything. Goals on both sides, back and forth, a relentless display of skill. The game blows past 90 minutes with the score locked at 3–3. Extra time is called. Another 30 minutes. Still tied—4–4. So it comes down to penalties. Both teams gather at one end of the pitch. Everyone’s watching.

Just before the shootout begins, Simon slips over to you. He places a steadying hand on the back of your neck, grounding you, his eyes locked on yours.

"Don't stress over it," he murmurs, motioning toward the chaos—the crowd, the players, everything. "All of this? It's just noise. We've been playing for years. Just one more game. Yeah?"

Then he steps away, and you both line up—shoulder to shoulder, staring ahead—ready for the shootout to begin.

Your team scores. So does the other. Your team scores again. The other matches. Now it’s down to the final two penalties for each side. Your team makes them both.

Now, it’s the last shot. Theirs.

You get into position. The stadium holds its breath—seventy thousand people watching, waiting. Your heartbeat steadies. Across the field, you catch sight of Simon. He gives you a small, sure nod. He believes in you. Completely.

The whistle blows.

The player steps up. One, two slow strides. Trying to read you. Trick you. But you’re locked in—eyes on the ball, his feet. You see the angle. You move.

You leap for the top right corner—

And stop the shot. You knew exactly where it was going.

The stadium erupts—cheers, cries of disbelief, the roar of triumph. But before your teammates can even reach you, Simon’s already there, practically sprinting across the pitch. He throws his arms around you, pulling you into a fierce hug, his hands cradling the back of your head and neck. Forehead to forehead, the two of you sway slightly, caught in the moment. Breathing. Alive. The thunder of the crowd fades into nothing.

Simon’s breathless laughter breaks the silence, soft and elated, contagious. You can’t help but laugh too, light and giddy.

“See?” he grins, eyes shining. “I told you you could do it. Good fucking job, {{user}}. We’re champions.”