Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: All right, this is it!

Thanks to my lovely pre-readers Jaxy (Jax713) and Packy (_LittleLovely_) and my rock star beta Mel (mcc101180).

Quick reminder for non-soccer fans: A match consists of two 45 minutes halves plus a 15 minute break in the middle. If the score is tied after the first 90 minutes, then they play two more 15 minutes halves for a total 120 minutes. If they are tied still, then they go for a round of penalty kicks.

Throughout the game the coach can only make three substitutions. Once all subs have been used, there are no more changes. Even if a player gets hurt, he either has to play hurt or step out and leave his team with ten men. At the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Franz Beckenbauer (a German defender) played for the last 30 minutes of the final game with a heavily strapped, dislocated shoulder. :s

Anyway, enough about history… let's get onto the good stuff.

Chapter 13. Part 1. The Final Game.

My muscles are warmed up. My body is ready. My mind is set. I'm in this one-hundred percent — mind, body, and soul. As we line up in the tunnel, I'm second behind Emmett who rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck in preparation.

I don't know exactly when the tradition started, but eleven kids per team will walk hand in hand with each player to emphasize sportsmanship. We are role models for these young kids, and they're here to remind us to behave as such.

The little one whose hand I'm holding seems to be doing a better job than me dealing with his nerves. While he stands still, with an excited smile on his face, looking eagerly up at me, I'm fidgety, my lips being attacked by my teeth, my left hand hanging at my side opening and closing a fist as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

He'll never forget this day, and neither will I.

The end of the tunnel is almost too bright. I squint my eyes to see the reason I am here. Why we are all here. There, in the middle of the exit, where we'll walk right by on our way out to the field, is the trophy, the prize, the most coveted award for a footballer. The World Cup.

I can see it shining under the Brazilian sun, sitting there, on top of the stand. The round base holds two athletes stretching up, the world held up in their hands, in their moment of victory. I've dreamed of holding that cup between my fingers since I was a little boy, like the one holding my splinted hand right now. Only the greatest have held that golden statue in their hands. And today, the US finally has a chance.

I don't look at my rivals, lining up next to me, doing their own little rituals. Not even at Gustavo, who stands a couple guys behind me. I push aside all thoughts of how disrespectful he was to Bella that night at Lapa . I will not let him get to me today.

These few minutes while we wait in the tunnel are filled with complete focus on the task ahead. Nothing could break my concentration at this point. Not even Bella walking naked in this hallway. Well, maybe I wouldn't go so far as to say that...

I look down and take a deep breath, exhaling harshly through my mouth, while I arrange the captain arm band meticulously. It's an honor and a huge responsibility to lead my team today, but I am ready, and I won't disappoint.

The loud drumming outside combines with my beating heart as we slowly make our way onto the Maracanã stadium field. Completely sold out, there are over eighty-five thousand souls in this place. The little kid next to me squeezes my hand and I squeeze it back, not really knowing how to offer him any support. The vibe in the stadium is quite frankly overwhelming.

My eyes scan the crowds, unable to make out faces, only colors. Over half of the stadium is wearing yellow — Brazil supporters. The right half, on the other hand, holds the biggest supporter crowd we've had yet, dressed in red, white, and blue. Huge American flags dance in the air. These people are here for us, and we're going to make them proud.

We line up in front of the cameras as they announce the national anthems, and the kids line up in front of us. The Brazilian crowd is loud, singing and chanting. My arms stretch for the little fella in front of me, my fingers barely reaching his shoulders, trying to keep a connection with him. My gaze remains fixed in front of me, at nothing in particular, trying hard to stand still. I'm ready to get this game started.

When the US anthem starts, my teammates and I link our arms together over our shoulders. I mouth the words of my country's most precious lyrics with my eyes closed. Hearing the roar of the crowd over the last line works like a boost of adrenaline through my body, and I am unable to stay motionless anymore. I think I'm jumping, clapping, and egging my team on as we take our positions.

We are in for a rude awakening as soon as the game starts. It feels like we just stepped on this field, and the Brazilians are already dominating ball possession in its entirety. Their striker goes through our defense like a walk in the park, dribbles past Emmett, and puts it in the right corner.

The cheering of the crowd is deafening — like nothing I've ever experienced before. The host team is now winning 1-0 after only six minutes of play. Our defense is completely overwhelmed by the speed of the Brazilians and the ease with which they touch the ball. Fifteen minutes into the game, they score again.

We've all been caught off guard. The lost expression on my teammates' faces is not something I'm willing to tolerate. I'm yelling at them, signaling with my arms, trying to get everyone out of the shock of being down 2-0 in such a short period of time.

The Brazilians feel way superior — they play at ease while we struggle to keep up. Both Seth and I drop back to help with the defense and try to somehow keep control of the game. We start winning some balls and increase our possession a bit. But with our lines so far back, we barely have any chance to score.

As the minutes progress, I try to get Seth to move up, so we can at least try to attack. Toward the end of the first half, I cross the ball from the midfield and he starts his run. Gustavo gets to it first though, but with a blatantly obvious hand ball. I scream at the ref who refuses to call the foul, but signals to continue playing instead.

I turn to the assistant ref on the sideline of the field. He's not raising his flag either. I run to him, colorfully complaining about his poor visual skills, when I hear Seth calling me from behind. When I turn around, I notice the play has continued, Brazil is counterattacking, and when they score easily again, my hands pull at the hair on the top of my head.

Caught up in the injustice of it all, I have trouble finding my voice, my mind. The first half ends and we're losing 3-0. We head back into the locker rooms in a mix of disgust and incredulity. I walk past the World Cup trophy still on its stand, and I can't help but think how the Brazilians already have one hand around it. An achievement that seemed so tangible forty-five minutes ago, now feels so far away. Our dreams of a first World Cup title are basically over.

My mind tortures me, going over the most embarrassing defeats in the history of World Cups. Are we going to lose 3-0, or is it going to get even worse? Will we break the record of most goals allowed in a World Cup final? Are we going to be humiliated in front of the whole world? Are we going to prove the world right that Americans are just not good at soccer, and that we got this far on good luck?

I'm frankly too shocked to even be angry.

I walk in the dressing room, head down, dragging my feet — completely defeated. I sink on the bench, next to my teammates as Waylon walks in. He stands in front of us, hands on his hips, a serious expression on his face.

"We knew this wasn't going to be easy," is the first thing he says. "They are fast and in top physical form."

I look around the room. Everyone seems deflated, just sitting there, heads down, tired.

"We're not going to allow any more goals," Waylon continues. "Emmett, keep your head up. You've done what you could."

"How can I keep my head up? We're fucking losing 3-0!" I've never seen Emmett so visibly affected at a game. He's taking the blame. That's just not fair.

"Em, it's not your fault. If they get that close to begin with it's because we've already messed up." I put a hand on his back, but he still looks down.

"There are thousands of Americans out there who have come all this way to see you play. Our mission for the next forty-five minutes will be to give them at least one goal." As Waylon continues his speech, the tone of the chants and cheers outside suddenly changes, and the singing is now in English. I can't pick up all of the words — they melt together with cheers — but they're filled with emotion that carries all the way into the locker room. I look at Waylon first, then at my teammates.

We're losing 3-0 but our country is still cheering for us. That's our people out there. Our families. Our friends. They haven't given up on us. Why have we?

Why have I?

"We've gotta do it for them. They're still here. They're still cheering. That's your country supporting you! We're not going to throw in the towel." Waylon raises his voice, the energy from the cheers coming from outside obviously affecting him too.

I get up from the bench and shake Emmett's shoulder trying to cheer him up. The game is not finished — there are still a lot of minutes to play. Waylon starts discussing strategies and the two substitutions he's making in the midfield and back. He wants Seth and me to move forward and try to score.

We get to it as soon as we go out, trying to take the Brazilians by surprise with our crowd cheering behind us. Only five minutes into the second half, Seth gets a corner kick. He crosses it beautifully into the goal area as I jump over the defenders. My head connects with the ball, shifting its direction, right into the net.

3-1.

We don't waste any time celebrating. I grab the ball from the back of the net and head back. My hand smacks Seth's shoulder, thanking him for his cross. We get right back at it, and a couple minutes later, Seth opens his way through the defense, showing off his dribbling technique and working some magic, putting us back in the game.

3-2.

The Brazilians look no way near defeated though. They close the lines in the defense and start attacking again, wanting to finish this game. After a couple of chances that make our defense seem overwhelmed again, I decide to drop back to help out but without neglecting the attack, trying to still cross the ball to Seth so he could be in position to score. It's not an easy task — covering that much ground of the field — especially having Gustavo on my back the whole time.

I am determined — I won't let him get to me. There's still time on that clock and we need to score. I ignore him the best I can, as I try to focus on the game, but when he brings me down with a malicious slide-tackle from behind, I react.

"Hey!" I walk up to him, pointing, and with a hand on his chest, push him back. "Watch it, asshole."

The ref approaches us, whistling. Gustavo and I get a warning from him and then he walks back.

"Edward, calm down." Jasper holds me back, one hand on my chest, one on my back.

"He was… I just…" I can't get a sentence out. I'm panting profusely, completely out of breath.

"You're trying to do too much. You need to pace yourself."

I try catching my breath as I return to my position, and the game continues just as before. The Brazilians keep possession of the ball, and thus control of the game. The minutes tick as we try our hardest to score without neglecting our defense.

Fifteen minutes before the end, I get my chance. I'm outside of the area, about forty yards from the goal, too far out, maybe, but I feel confident. I look up at Seth, who's being marked by two defenders; no way I'll make it across to him. I dribble past Gustavo and take my shot, giving it all I have left. The ball flies over the field with force, coming down for the goal, taking the keeper by surprise and going into the net on the left corner.

3-3.

I am euphoric. I keep running past the goal — my teammates behind me. I jump over the advertisement barrier toward the bleachers, where the US crowd is roaring. I fist the emblem of my shirt and bring it to my lips, pointing at them, as my teammates catch up with me in a huddle.

We are now tied, and there's ten minutes on the clock. I try to catch my breath as we head back. We've made a tremendous comeback, but it has come with a price. We have exerted ourselves, and I can see we are all exhausted. We either try to finish this game now — score again — or we'll have to play thirty more minutes against a squad of Brazilians who a) have made no substitutions yet and b) look considerably fresher than us.

I look over at Waylon, for guidance. He signals to move forward. We try, we do, really. But the Brazilians are trying to finish the game as well, and we can't afford to leave them any space, so we are forced to keep our lines back. I go into overdrive, trying to open some plays from behind. Seth is giving it his all too, trying to receive my crosses.

Unfortunately, my right leg does not seem to be up to the task, and when I jump over Gustavo, to avoid being tackled again, the back of my leg stiffens and contracts painfully, making me fall to the ground.

I sit up grabbing my leg, resting my forehead on top of my knee, trying to breathe.

"You okay?" Seth is next to me, a hand on my shoulder.

"Cramp…" I barely get out through a tight jaw.

The Brazilians start complaining to the ref, saying I am faking it to waste time.

To waste time?

I want this game over; we definitely do not want to go to extra time. Not like this.

I breathe a couple times before I try to get up. When I do, the crowd cheers, and even though my leg is stiff and not cooperating, I limp the quickest I can manage off the field so that the medic staff can help me and the game can continue.

Once off the field, I drop on the ground again. The medic is trying to help me stretch, but I keep swatting his hand away, in too much pain.

"Edward, stop! Lie back."

"Just give me a second," I plead, holding on to my leg, trying to breathe.

"Is it a cramp?"

As if to answer his question, my hamstring spasms painfully again, tensing up from the back of my knee to my ass cheek. I clamp my teeth together to try to suppress a cry as I slump on the turf. I cover my eyes with my arm and focus on my breathing while he grabs my foot and stretches my leg.

"Maybe you should sit the rest of the game out," the other one says, as he sprays the back of my leg.

"No," I say through my teeth, trying hard not to scream.

"It's not loosening up."

Like I need to hear that.

I can feel how tense it is. If I wasn't in so much pain, I would have sarcastically thanked him for his insightful observation, but every rub of his finger on the back of my leg feels like a thousand knives stabbing me while, simultaneously, my hamstring is trying to peel itself from the bone.

"Just give it a sec." I groan my words, trying to breathe through the pain and relax my leg. When he finally lets go of me, I try to get up, seeing that Waylon's already on his way to us. "I'm not sitting this out unless you have to stretcher me off this field," I hiss at the medic, pointing at his face.

I rub the back of my leg, trying to will it to relax the fuck down. "Just give me a minute," I say to Waylon. "Then put me back in."

"Edward..."

"It's just a cramp. It will pass. It's passing." I try my best to keep my voice even, but Waylon still eyes me suspiciously. I see behind his back — he has Tyler warming up already, to substitute me. Our last substitution is not going to be wasted on me. I look at him in the eyes, composing my face. "I'm fine."

Waylon goes back to the bench, but doesn't ask Crowley to stop warming up. I rest my hands on my knees, my leg stiff, my muscle contracted, and I can't fucking move.

I can't believe this is happening!

I try to breathe the pain off, rubbing my fingers behind my knee. "Please, please, please."

I thought I could do this, but maybe I can't. It just hurts too much.

The back of my thigh is still tense, but at least it's not contracting anymore. I eye the bench from my crouched position, sweat dripping from my face, and find Waylon looking at me.

The game is still going on, and I'm wasting valuable seconds. We're still tied 3-3 and there are only ten minutes on the clock. If the Brazilians score now, it will all be over. Every hour of hard work, of rigorous preparation, to be wasted because of a cramp? Not in this lifetime.

I straighten my back and get up in determination, taking a couple steps and forcing my leg to behave. I try to compose my face enough to stare back at Waylon and let him know I am all right. I'm not sure if I succeed or not, but I still nod at him and give him the universal OK sign with my thumb up. The medics spray some more shit on my leg as I try to push the pain to the back of my mind.

I allow myself a second to gaze over to the VIP area, above the bench. Generally, I never look at my family during a game, to avoid getting distracted, but right now I need them — I need to see them, and I need to see her.

I find them immediately. My mom's off her seat, one hand clamped over her mouth, looking at me with concern in her eyes, while my dad's arm rests securely around her. Alice is up on the rail, screaming at whatever is going on in the game. And Bella, well, Bella's gaze travels the distance and her eyes pierce mine. Her hand is in a fist over the emblem on the front of her shirt — my shirt.

I know they will always support me, even if I fail them, but I refuse to let a cramp hold me down. My leg suddenly feels like it's relaxing. Whether it is real or not, I don't know — I don't care. As soon as the ref lets me, I come in, still in pain, but at least I can move my leg now.

I don't even try to keep playing at the speed I was before. I know for a fact I'm not able to, and I don't want to start cramping again. I try a couple of far crosses for Seth, who's still unexplainably running at full speed, but they end up either being too far or too short. My leg is seriously messed up, and I can't get the precision I need.

I could have probably continued in overdrive until I just ran into the ground, without thinking about the consequences. But there are consequences. The last minutes of a game are always the most difficult ones. Being so tired, it's very easy to make mistakes, and one mistake can cost you the game. I will not be foolish today, not when there's so much at stake.

So I drop back and help my team with the defense, taking advantage of any opportunity to pass the ball to Seth, but without overexerting myself… any more. If we're going to have to play for thirty more minutes, then I need to pace myself.

When the whistle is blown at the end of the ninety minutes, we are still tied 3-3. We get together in a huddle, as Waylon goes over some strategy. We're all exhausted but determined. He asks if I'm okay. He wants to use the last substitution to bring in fresh legs. We both agree it is best to bring in someone in a defensive position to help keep up with the Brazilian attack.

When the first half of extra time starts, we don't give away any chances. The pace of the game slows a bit, which helps me recover some energy. Seth keeps trying to score — he even yells at me to pass him the ball. His determination is inspiring, and I start moving forward again.

By the second half of extra time, we're both running on fumes, but we're still trying and we have gotten a couple of chances. Toward the end, I dribble past Gustavo and have a clear shot at Seth whose gotten rid of his defenders too. I don't get to make the shot though, instead Gustavo sweeps me again from behind.

At least this time, he gets a yellow card and we get a free kick.

I'm flat on the turf, face down, my fingers fisting the grass. I don't even have the energy to protest. I stay down, trying to breathe, my leg throbbing but at least not cramping. I am shattered though — I don't know if I can continue.

"Edward, c'mon!" Seth pulls at my shoulder, hovering over me. "Seven minutes left. This is our chance. C'mon, get up."

The kid keeps pulling with some force until I get up. I rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, as I measure the distance between the ball and the net.

I peek at Waylon who signals I should go for goal. I look at the bench, the rest of my teammates, everyone counting on me for this. I need to finish this game. We have no more substitutions, and I will not leave my team with one man down again.

"Not even thirty yards." Seth pants next to me, bringing my attention back to the free kick ahead. "Piece of cake," he says with a smile.

I look at him and then back at the goal. Running in pain is one thing, taking a precise direction-versus-force balanced shot is another.

I get up from my bent position and stumble a bit. I can't even hold my weight on my right leg at the moment. "Seth, you take it."

"What?" His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

"You can do this."

"Edward, don't mess around right now. This is our chance. You're flawless at this."

"Kid, my leg's fucked up, okay? I don't know if I can make the shot... but you can. We've been over this. You've gotten shots like this before."

"Shit..."

"Listen, they'd think I'd go for the left corner with my right foot. Look how the goalie is arranging the wall. You can easily get it in the right corner. They'll never expect it. You can do this."

"I… I don't know." He looks down, scratching his neck.

"Yes, you do." I put a hand on his shoulder, turning him around toward the ball. "C'mon, let's do this."

I set the ball carefully, with the air valve pointing where Seth is going to hit it. I stand with my left foot next to the ball and take a couple breaths through my mouth. In my mind, there's no one else here but Seth and me, that ball, and that net.

I take five steps back and stand with my legs wide in front of the ball, as Seth does the same. We usually have some kind of distraction like this, so that it's not obvious who is taking the kick. It's usually me though, and the Brazilians know this, so they pay no attention to Seth as he gets ready too.

I eye the wall of five Brazilian players, covering their parts, facing my direction. They stand about twenty yards between us and that net where this ball needs to be. I take a look a Seth, who is rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath, completely focused.

He's ready — he can do this.

We both start our run about the same time, except I just jump over the ball and keep going, as Seth kicks it with the instep of his left foot, flicking it to the right so it could take a rolling effect.

I watch the ball roll, as if in slow motion, over the wall of jumping men, and then dip to the right, aiming for that top right corner and flying over the keeper's gloves straight into the goal. I watch the ball cling to the net, swinging back and forth, before it drops on the ground.

I turn to Seth, my arms extended, a fucking proud smile on my face.

How do you like them flawless free kicks!

3-4.

The crowd explodes and Seth drops to his knees, covering his face with his hands.

The team knocks him over as we pile up on top of him in complete euphoria.

As everyone get up and goes back to their positions, Seth stays on the ground, panting, arms covering his face.

"C'mon, kid," I say, extending my hand to him to help him up. "Five minutes left, we can do this."

I don't even know how to cope with the words out of my mouth. Five minutes left on the clock and we're winning. We're beating Brazil, in their home stadium, after being down 3-0 during the first half.

We all drop back and defend, trying not to make mistakes, as Brazil aims desperately to score. They get one clear chance, but Emmett saves it impeccably.

The American crowd's singing numbs away the Brazilians, and when the ref blows the final whistle, the place just roars.

I drop on the turf, flat on my back, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. My heart hammers in my chest as I look up at Rio de Janeiro's clear blue sky.

I can't believe it, but we just won the World Cup.

A/N: *\o/*

Right... so... part 2 coming your way on Thursday!

Thanks for reading!

Ronnie.