The first goal came at the sixteen-minute mark—the striker’s first shot attempt, resulting in a point for their rivals.

It wasn’t Tomás’s fault. It was a shot from outside the box that found the only angle he hadn’t calculated, slipping into the bottom right corner before his gloves could even react.

"Bad positioning," Nolan said, holding me tighter. "It wasn’t a good idea for even the defenders to move up to attack."

The stadium split into the noise of the Burnaby Beavers’ families and the silence of the Vancouver Elks’ mothers.

Tomás punched the ground, a sign of his anger at the unfortunate incident. The goal scorer, a tall and much more athletic boy, offered his hand in a display of good sportsmanship. But Tomás rejected it, grabbing the ball from the back of the net. He walked back to his position under the crossbar without looking at the stands.

Mr. Arrit looked down at his hat, squeezing his fingers in helplessness.

Mayo didn’t say anything out loud. But I was close enough to hear her.

"How useless," she whispered, so low it wasn’t meant for the world. I turned to look at her, watching how she clenched her hand with excessive force. "Useless," she repeated, leaving me with only one thought.

"It was meant for herself, Ryne," Clear said, her voice clear in my mind.

"I know," I said to myself, responding at the same time to Nolan’s statement. "It wasn’t a good idea for everyone to move up; it was an all-or-nothing move that shouldn’t be repeated."

He squeezed my shoulders, sighing. "Do you think they’ll win?"

"I have faith," I said, leaning my head against his chest. "Mr. Arrit taught me that—to trust and believe in what I want."

The second goal came at the twenty-nine-minute mark.

Chapter 33: Defense Match IV

This time it was harder to justify. A direct play, two defenders who didn’t make it in time, and the ball crossing the line before Tomás could even dive.

"Damn it!" Nolan said, clenching his fist. "This is being so unfair. I bet they hold them back a grade just to keep the good players. Just look at him, he has more of a beard than I do."

"That’s because you’re already hairless by default," I said, rubbing his chin. "And the little bit you do get, you shave off every day."

He nodded with a nervous smile. "You’re right, but let’s not get into details."

I nodded, looking back at the scoreboard. "Two to zero," I whispered, but my eyes drifted back to Mayo.

She leaned back in the stands with her arms crossed, watching the field with her breathing heavily out of control. It wasn’t anger. It was something quieter and deeper. That made me blink twice, unable to believe it was real.

Mr. Arrit kept looking at his grandson without changing his expression. Tomás, under the crossbar, punched the turf again—once, twice, three times—before shaking out his gloves and recovering his stance.

"Useless, useless," Mayo muttered to herself.

I looked at Nolan, his eyes calm. He probably didn’t care about the match, just about spending time by my side, and for me, that wasn’t enough. I slowly let go of Nolan’s arms without making a sound and moved two seats to the right until I was right next to Mayo. The hesitant darkness in her eyes betrayed her surprise.

"Have faith in him," I told her in a low voice, holding out my chips. "Want some?"

She took a couple, chewing them with way too much force. "It’s already two to zero," she replied without looking over. "Do you actually have faith in this?"

"I know," I replied, reaching for my juice. "And I still have faith in him."

"Two goals, Ryne. In less than thirty minutes," she said, squeezing her knee. "Don’t you get it?"

"I know," I smiled, letting out a laugh. "I get it very well."

She frowned, tightening her grip on her knee. "Then why do you still trust him?"

I took a chip, eating it in two bites. "It’s very easy to understand." I turned to look at Mr. Arrit. "Because he still has faith," I said, turning my gaze back to her. "And if he can do it after two goals, so can I."

Mayo didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the field, on Tomás, who at twelve years old was carrying the sole weight of a goalpost he had already failed twice.

"What nonsense you talk," she whispered. "Drop your lectures and that trust bullshit."

Maybe he was angry—his feet were shaking, his hand hurt from punching the ground—but he was still standing there, protecting it anyway.

The discount goal came at the thirty-one-minute mark. A quick counterattack, a shot into the top corner, and the opposing goalkeeper couldn’t reach it. The stands on the Elks’ side exploded into a noise I didn’t expect, and Mr. Arrit clapped happily.

Two to one.

Tomás clapped from the goalmouth. His legs showed more confidence. Mayo sat up a bit in her seat, as if that goal were confirmation that they could win.

"They scored one," she said, almost to herself.

"Yeah," I confirmed, taking a sip of my juice.

She turned to look at me, seeing my smile with hesitant eyes.

"How do you trust someone who already let you down?" she asked. "Or is it even possible?"

I looked at her, watching her coal-black pupils tremble and shine against the yellow sun.

"I don’t trust based on actions. Tomás hasn’t proven anything to me," I answered, catching her satisfied smile at my pathetic answer. "I trust out of love."

She raised her eyebrows. "Girl, I think that’s pedophilia," she replied, bursting into laughter. "Girl, wait a few years and then sleep with him. Maybe on his birthday, it could be a good present."

"It’s not me who loves him," I replied. "But I do trust Mr. Arrit."

Mayo didn’t reply.

"The things you love don’t have to earn your trust," I continued. "If you ask them to prove it before you believe in them, you’re never going to fully believe them. You’ll always be waiting for them to fail again."

She looked down at her hands. Her fingers moved slowly, opening and closing, as if measuring the distance of something nonexistent—at least to my eyes.

"And how would you trust someone you hate?" she said, so quietly that the noise from the stands almost drowned it out.

She wasn’t asking me. Or she was, but the answer didn’t involve Tomás. I stayed still for a moment, searching for the words with extra care.

"I don’t know," I said at last, smiling under the yellow sunlight. "I’m barely learning to trust myself."

She looked at me with a genuine smile for the first time since I had sat down next to her.

"But," I continued, looking back toward Mr. Arrit, whose eyes were still on his grandson, "if someone I care about trusts, then I’m going to trust too. Without asking why. Without asking them to prove it first."

Mayo followed my gaze toward Mr. Arrit. She watched him for a second. Then she looked back at the field, where Tomás was adjusting his gloves under the crossbar with renewed energy.

"Sometimes trusting can surprise you," I said, distracting her for a second.

"For me, that has to be proven."

"Gooooal!" Nolan shouted from my left, standing up and almost kicking the air.

The equalizer came at the forty-minute mark. A play that no one in the stands saw coming, a shot from inside the box that hit the net before the opposing goalkeeper could react.

Two to two.

The stands exploded. Mr. Arrit clapped slowly. Tomás ran toward his teammates with open arms, and for the first time in the whole match, he abandoned the goal. There was no one to defend in a moment of celebration.

I stood up too, feeling the cold of the concrete leave my legs, clapping with hands that still stung beneath the bandages.

Beside me, Mayo slowly clenched her fists. Not out of anger.

"It’s hard to believe," she said, her voice barely above the racket in the stands. "I’d even say impossible."

"I know," I replied, offering her my hand. "It’s magical."

She took it, leaning her sixty-two kg against my forty-six as she stood up. "That one moment they were losing two to zero and now..."

"Two to two!" I interrupted. "Two to two!"

"It’s hard to believe," she repeated.

I turned to look at her.

"I’m going to trust the people I care about," I said. "Without questioning what they do."

Mayo looked at me. Her black eyes, at this hour of the afternoon, held a light I hadn’t seen in them before. It wasn’t exactly joy. It was something closer to when someone hears something they didn’t expect to hear and doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

The referee’s whistle blew, signaling halftime.

"TWO TO TWO!" she yelled, raising her soda can and spilling a few drops.

"I told you, Mayo," I smiled, taking one of her cans and cracking it open, listening to the click. "The second half is always more interesting."