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Silence fell over the stadium as the crowd hushed, standing frozen in anticipation. The world narrowed to a single, spinning shape cutting through the air. The ball turned end over end, slicing forward like a torpedo—and straight between the middle posts.

Goal.

The noise slammed back in all at once, and I didn’t even realise I’d raised my fist until my arm was already in the air, a roar tearing from my chest. Hands grabbed me, bodies collided, and I was driven into the grass beneath the weight of my teammates.

“We won!” Andrew, our ruckman, shouted as the final siren screamed around the stadium. The loud horn was a long, brutal confirmation that it was over. We’d made it. Holy fuck, we’d actually made it. I surfaced from the pile, alive in a way that only this game could make you feel. That was why I stayed, why I fought. Why I never let myself fall too far.

I broke away, sprinting toward the stands, toward the hands reaching for me, toward the version of myself that only lived under lights.

“Jackson Easton, you beauty!”

I grinned and let them grab at me, shake me, tug on my grass-stained blue, gold, and red guernsey, and scream my name like it meant something. Like I meant something. For a few minutes, I let myself believe it as our song reverberated around the stadium while my teammates jumped into the stands beside me.

“Jackson!”

I turn at the sound of my name cutting through the chaos. A Channel Six mic was already being shoved toward me, with a camera crew jogging backwards to keep pace. I dragged my forearm across my face, smearing the sweat, forcing my breathing to settle as I stepped down and approached them.

“Congratulations, mate,” Dean McCormack, the sports commentator I’d grown up watching, said with a grin as he patted me on the back and shook my hand. “That was something else.”

“Cheers,” I replied, leaning slightly toward the mic, still catching my breath, my cheeks aching from smiling so much while my words echoed around the stadium.

“How are you feeling after that? That was incredible,” he exclaimed.

I huffed out a short laugh, shaking my head. “My heart’s about to give out, I can't lie mate.” We chuckled as a couple of the boys ran past, smacking my back as they went.

“Told ya!”

“Fucking legend!”

I nodded, barely registering it. “Nah, that was…yeah. Hard to put into words.”

And it was true. Like every young Australian, I’d grown up playing AFL. My father left when I was four months old, leaving my teenaged mother to fend for herself. She worked as a waitress at the local Italian restaurant, where she met her first husband, who died of a drug overdose when I was six. She got married one more time to a man named Joe who used to lock me up in the closet when she wasn’t home. Playing footy after school was my only outlet from a home that terrified me.

After she divorced him, she bought a trailer on the outskirts of town with a revolving door of dealers and meth heads, leaving me to my own devices while she searched for her next fix. I was fifteen when I knew I wanted to play the game professionally, though it seemed like a pipe dream I never thought would come into fruition. So when I was drafted at twenty-one, I made sure I was an asset to the team, because if I ever got dropped, I wouldn’t know what to do with my life. Football was all I knew.

“You’ve just sent the Kangas into their first Grand Final since ’82. What does that mean to you? To the club?”

“It means everything,” I replied. “The boys worked their asses off for this. Whole club has, and supporters stuck by us through the rough years, so…” I shrugged lightly. “Feels good to give something back.”

“You’ve got one more to go,” he said. “What are your chances next week?”

I let out a breath through my nose, a small, crooked smile pulling at my mouth. “You never know till you’re out there, do you?” I glanced toward the rooms. “We’ll show up, do the work, and see what happens. That’s all you can do.” The crowd surged again as my face flashed up on the big screen. I gave a quick thumbs up, grinning as the noise spiked.

“Good man, nice talking to you. Good luck for next week,” he said.

“Thanks mate, have a good one.”

Dean patted me on the back again and went off to interview another player. I looked up at the bright lights as I ran off the field, waving one last time to the fans before their cheers became distant noise the further I walked down the tunnel. Assistants and coaching staff lined the corridor as I came off the field, clapping me on the back as I passed. I nodded, grin still stuck in place, shaking hands, taking it all in without really letting it land. It was easier that way. As soon as I entered, the locker room was filled with cheers and finger whistles.

“Alright, settle down, settle down,” I laughed.

But they didn’t. If anything, it only amplified as they crowded in, forming a loose circle around me, all of them buzzing, eyes bright, riding the same high. I glanced around at them, mud-streaked, sweating, grinning like idiots, and something solid settled in my chest.

“Good game,” I said, voice cutting through just enough to quiet them. “Seriously. We smashed them out there. I couldn’t have picked a better bunch of blokes to play with if you paid me.” There was a ripple of laughter, a couple of shoulders bumping into mine. I paused, just long enough to watch them lean in a bit. God, I loved this part. “Next week is everything we’ve been working toward,” I added, looking at all their faces.

“We know what we have to do. So enjoy this feeling, but don’t get too comfortable.” I pointed around the circle. “Because we’ve got a fucking flag to win!” The boys echoed my roar before cold liquid slammed over my head. I laughed as Powerade poured down my face, soaking my shirt, dripping off my chin. A tradition bestowed upon the most valuable player of that game. More got dumped over me, the boys losing it as I wiped my eyes, shaking my head.

“You’re all dead,” I muttered, but I was grinning.