Rain hammered down on Wembley as David Drinkwater stood on the touchline, bib clutched in both hands. At thirty-seven, his calves remembered every airport terminal, every failed medical, every rejection, but his eyes were as clear as they'd ever been.
The fourth official raised the board, and red numbers flashed.
"Change for Millwall," the commentator announced, while his co-commentator added, "Fresh legs for the last corner."
The camera followed David as he jogged toward the edge of the box.
Above the east stand, the scoreboard glowed through the downpour:
Millwall 2 — Norwich City 2
90:02
The Championship play-off final was on, with promotion to the Premier League hanging on one ball, and everyone in the stadium could feel it.
"Come on!" The gaffer pointed to the far post. David nodded—simple instructions, the kind he'd followed his entire career.
He moved into position slowly, rain pecking at his face, his shirt clinging to his skin as if it understood the story better than most people did.
Fiorentina had cut him at seventeen, Genoa tested him, then turned away. The years after that were a map of transfers instead of a proper career: Spain, Italy, France, and back to England. The memes followed him everywhere because strangers loved the joke—Club whore.
That's what they called him, and the nickname appeared under every highlight reel he wasn't in. He'd saved screenshots of every cruel comment, fuel for later, for a moment like this.
"Corner to Millwall." The commentator's voice cut through the roar as Ayo Balogun placed the ball.
The away end held its breath while Norwich packed the six-yard box. Their keeper barked orders, and their captain grabbed David's arm, determined not to let him slip free.
Three minutes of added time appeared on the board, and the stadium reacted like a living creature. From the stands, a single chant rose:
"Lions! Lions!"
David took two steps back, counted under his breath, and watched the line open up as the near-post decoy dragged two defenders with him.
The whistle pierced the air.
Balogun started his run, and the ball left his boot with a flat spin that fought against the wind.
David went late and went hard, breaking across the six-yard box just as the captain lost him for one heartbeat—that's all it took.
He leapt, and the contact thundered through his skull as he met the ball with his forehead, sending it down and away from the keeper's desperate hands.
The net rippled.
Wembley erupted.
The commentator's voice cracked with emotion: "He has done it! Millwall lead three-two, and they are minutes away from the Premier League!"
David turned toward the corner flag, arms spread wide as he sprinted, his teammates chasing after him in a blue wave.
One step, then another.
Then the floodlights smeared, the night shifted, and the edges of the world began closing in.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the blur only deepened; the pitch tilted, and white lines slid beneath his boots.
He kept running—joy doesn't check the body first—but his knees softened, his breath caught, and the grass rushed up to meet him.
He fell.
The turf slapped his cheek, cold soaked through his shirt, and the noise surged and broke and surged again.
"Medics!" someone shouted.
Boots skidded to a stop beside him, hands rolled him onto his back, and a voice called for space. The referee waved the physios through as the stretcher clattered across the pitch.
The camera cut to the scoreboard, burning bright against the rain:
Millwall 3 — Norwich City 2
90:45
"Stay with me," the captain's voice was close to his ear, fingers tapping David's jaw. The physio slid an arm under his neck, and another began counting.
"One, two, three..."
Compressions started, and the roar of the crowd thinned, pulled away like a tide going out. Outside the stadium, a siren began to wail.
David stared past the faces hovering over him, up at the roofline; the world was shaking. He tried to speak—there were things he'd never said.
He wanted to tell them the game had always lived inside him, that he'd kept every cruel word because he needed the fuel, that the joke could finally end now.
His chest ached in a tight circle, his arms felt weightless, and rain dotted his lips as if the sky had leaned down to listen.
He thought of Florence, of Genoa, of every badge that never felt like home.
He thought of the screenshot folder, of the clip that followed him everywhere, and imagined pressing one finger to the scoreboard so the whole world could see the number and finally fall quiet.
The floodlights bloomed wider, colors bled at the edges, and a thin light stitched itself across the sky.
Text appeared where no text should exist; it hovered in that light, refusing to fade even when his eyes tried to close.
「Host found: David Drinkwater」
「… Synchronising 1, 2, 3, 4…」
The siren cut closer, the stretcher bumped against his boot, and the captain said his name again, trying to anchor him to this world.
David looked at the scoreboard one last time, letting the number settle deep inside him.
Then he let the darkness come.
Because the darkness was already there.