Four More Years
No. Please, no.
27...28...29...
Christ. No, no, no. Please, God, no.
God can't hear me over the screams of victory.
"Brazil has won the 2002..."
I can't seem to make sense of the words, even when they repeat them a minute later in German. The field swims in my vision as I let the exhaustion take me, let it drag me to my knees. Shock pours over me like cold molasses until my whole body is shaking and I can't seem to make it stop. I reach down to steady myself with one hand and my palm slides on the slick grass. Plunge my fingers into the hard earth, got to calm down, got to get up...why?
All the games. All the practices. All the years I've spent dreaming of this very day. And here it is. Here it fucking is.
"Es sein rüber," I mutter numbly, surprised when the words take substance.
"Ja, it's over." Schneider's gravelly voice and the comforting weight of his hand on my shoulder. I try to smile but I can't remember how the muscles work. I settle for rolling my eyes up until I can see him towering above me, backlit and washed in shadow.
"It's over," he repeats, no emotion to the words, only a twinge of pity in his wrinkled brow. "So now, what do we do?"
"Ficken selbst?" I offer bitterly. At least it makes him smile.
"Nein," Schneider replies seriously. "We go home, we try harder, we play better, we do it again."
"Ja," I respond soberly, as he runs long fingers through my sweat-soaked hair, "Ja, you and I do. What about Voeller?" We both cringe, thinking of our coach's crushing disappointment and the criticism that will be unleashed upon us. "What about Oliver? Jesus, he's still standing in the net like the game hasn't ended. Will he have a chance to come back here? What about--" I stop as the realization strikes me like a kick to the head. "Jesus, Michael. Oh scheisse, ficken scheisse..."
Schneider's hand leaves my hair and wraps around my wrist, helping me to stand. I close my eyes against the brief vertigo and when I open them again everything is painfully clear. The celebrating Brazilians, my weeping teammates, and Michael, sitting on the sideline since the game started, head in his hands.
"Bernd, I--"
"I know," Schneider answers quickly, cutting me off. I glance back at him and he offers me a tiny smile. "I know. Go."
The field seems longer than ever as I trudge towards the sideline. On the way I stop at the net, where Oliver is still standing, no doubt replaying those two crucial goals over and over in his head. I touch his elbow timidly and he jerks to life, turning to me with wild eyes.
"Lost," he murmurs, and I can tell he wants to say more, but the words are stuck in his throat. I nod and smile through the tears.
"It was not your fault, Oliver," I assure him, touching his wrist in sympathy. He nods, but I can tell he isn't listening. "We are a team. We lose as a team." He nods again, an empty bob of the head, eyes hollow and devoid of expression. I pat his shoulder and continue my slow march across the field. I can hear him murmuring to himself in German as I walk away.
"In meinen Händen...wenn ihn gehabt..."
I'm twenty feet away, ten, and then I'm kneeling in front of him, my arms wrapped around him as he sobs against my chest. He's shaking so badly I'm afraid he's going to fall apart. My own disappointment, my frustration my loss melt away in the face of his despair.
"Should have been there...stupid ficken...why did I..."
"Shh, shh," I croon into the tangled locks of his dark, silky hair. "Michael." Murmuring his name again and again, trying to calm him down, stop the thick, wrenching sobs that tear through his chest. "Not your fault, not your fault, bitte schreien Sie nicht, mein Liebchen, nicht schreien..."
"Warum??" he shouts back at me, his delicate face flushed with anger. "Why shouldn't I cry? It's over, Miro! All of it, over, because of me! I was supposed to be there, out--there--" He jabs a finger at the field for emphasis. "And I wasn't, because of that stupid play...dumm...ich bin so dumm..."
"Michael, stop!" I ensnare both his slim wrists in my grasp before he can slam another fist into the ground. His struggles are weak and lack conviction, the look in his eyes haunting as he stares bleakly at me. Failed, failed, failed.
"This is not your fault. You did what you had to do. If you hadn't made that tackle you know he would have scored, and then where would we have been? Fighting Turkey for third place. No one expected us to get this far, Michael. It was you. You and Kahn, you carried this team so far. You did what you had to do. God, you gave up the chance to play in the finals for the team. What more could you have done?"
He stares desperately up at me with dark, hungry eyes, wanting to believe. Wanting it, needing an end to this misery. I see it waver and crumble in his eyes, feel his sigh against my neck as he leans into me and lets go of the guilt he's carried since that game.
"Ich liebe dich," I whisper softly, lifting his chin until we're face to face. He's still crying, but hell, we're all crying. I try to smile for him but my mouth won't obey. My frustration must show, because he smiles for me instead, and then he leans forward and gently presses his mouth to mine.
"Ich liebe dich auch, Miroslav," he breathes when we finally separate. I nod mutely, and he laughs. "You can open your eyes now."
I didn't realize I had closed them until they flutter open again at his words. His narrow face comes into focus; fair skin, dark hair, laughing eyes. The tears have dried on his cheeks and his soft mouth holds a hint of a smile.
"Four more years," he vows, filled with a new-found determination. "We'll win, and it will be all the sweeter in our own country."
"Can we do that again in four years?" I ask, then blink in horror at my own boldness. Michael just smiles.
"How about," he murmurs, leaning in close until there's only a breath of space between us, and then none, "how about in four seconds?"