Sport Tournaments : Part 3

It was early in the morning; the narrow streets of the town had not yet fully awakened. The salty wind from the sea struck Yiğit’s face, and under the gray sky, the waves crashed against the shore. From afar, the sound of fishing boat engines could be heard, while the wind scattered leaves as a stray cat lazily passed by a trash bin. Yiğit had his backpack straps tightly gripping his shoulders as he walked toward the town’s gym with Mert and Emre. His black t-shirt fluttered slightly in the wind, and his dark hair fell over his forehead. Today was 12-A’s last group match; at noon, they would face 11-B. If they won, they would secure first place in the group—taking one step closer to the final of the festival’s football tournament.

Mert was walking ahead, bouncing a football in his hands. “If we win this match, no one can stop us!” he said, a mix of determination and excitement in his voice. His short-cropped hair trembled in the wind, and his eyes sparkled.

Emre, taller than Mert, grinned beside him. “Yiğit will put on a show again, and the crowd will go wild!” he said, throwing his arm over Mert’s shoulder. His laughter echoed through the street as a seagull took flight.

Yiğit took the ball in his hands, feeling the firm leather surface under his fingers. He seemed calm as he bounced it, but something was stirring inside him. He couldn’t shake off Gizem’s harsh words from yesterday: “I’m not coming to the match, and I don’t need your victory!” The words rang in his ears, leaving a weight on his chest. Why had she said that? Had he done something wrong? His gaze dropped to the ground, following the cracks in the concrete sidewalk. Maybe it’s about Pınar… But what did I do wrong? He lifted his head. “It’ll be a tough match, but we’ll win,” he said, his voice firm yet thoughtful. A small smile appeared on his lips, and his dark eyes wandered through the street.

Mert raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking, captain? Focus on the game!” he teased, tossing the ball toward Yiğit, a challenge in his voice, his eyes narrowed.

Yiğit caught the ball in mid-air. “I’m focused, don’t worry,” he muttered, but his mind was still on Gizem—that cold tone, her trembling yet sharp words… Is she hiding something? He slammed the ball onto the ground, the sound echoing, pulling himself together.

By the time they reached the gym, the festival atmosphere had taken over the entire town. The concrete building stood in the distance with its large windows and old sign, and the crowd gathered around it was buzzing with excitement. The stands were starting to fill; teenagers roamed with sports bags, families scrambled to find seats with their children, and a group of students waved cardboard signs while chanting: “12-A! To the finals!” As Yiğit, Mert, and Emre entered the gym, they were joined at the door by Okan and the rest of the team. The energy of the crowd settled over them, their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. Yiğit scanned the stands—banners waved, familiar faces smiled, colorful shirts swayed… But Gizem wasn’t there. His heart clenched for a moment. She didn’t come… Why was I expecting her anyway?

At that moment, Pınar’s voice rose from the crowd. “Yiğit! Come on, show them what you’ve got!” she shouted, waving her hands in the air with exaggerated cheerfulness.

Yiğit turned his head and saw her—her hair whipping in the wind, laughing with Beste and Zeynep in a corner—but he ignored it, averting his gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line. Where’s Gizem? If she were in the stands, he would have noticed her.

He headed toward the locker room with the team. The familiar scent of old benches and the peeling paint on the walls gave a sense of nostalgia.

Mert dropped his bag on the floor. “11-B’s defense is tough, but we can break through on the wings,” he said, excitement in his voice as he gestured in the air, mentally mapping out plays while tying his shoelaces.

Kaan nodded. “If we move the ball quickly through midfield, Yiğit will find an opening. He can smell a goal from miles away!” he grinned, glancing at Yiğit, an expectation in his eyes.

Yiğit moved to a corner, quietly putting on his jersey. The black-and-white striped fabric clung to his skin. He opened his bag, took out his phone, and his fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. Should I call Gizem? What if she doesn’t answer? But something inside him pushed him forward—maybe she had misunderstood him yesterday, maybe he had another chance. Making a sudden decision, he found her name and dialed. His heart pounded, and he held his breath. What if she doesn’t want to see me? But he didn’t back down. His fingers trembled on the phone.

Meanwhile, Gizem was at the beach, sitting on the rocks with Beyza, watching the waves foam against the shore. She had pulled the hood of her gray hoodie over her head, her hands clenched tightly in her pockets, thinking about her outburst yesterday. The image of Yiğit sitting on the bench replayed in her mind—his calm voice, his genuine smile, the warmth in his dark eyes—but then, that indifferent walk away… I was unfair, but Pınar’s words keep eating at me. She hadn’t even written about it in her journal. I love him, but this feeling is suffocating me. What if everything is wrong? The sea was slightly rough, its gray surface stretching to the horizon. The wind blew strands of her hair across her face as the waves crashed against the rocks, leaving behind white foam.

Beyza turned to her. “You’re still sulking. What’s eating at you now?” she asked, her voice soft with curiosity. She tossed a small stone into the water, watching the ripples spread as her eyes flicked to Gizem.

Gizem shrugged. “I yelled at Yiğit yesterday… I regret it,” she said, her voice tired but fragile, her gaze drifting to the sea. “Pınar and her group cornered me at lunch, mocking me about Yiğit. So I snapped at him, but it wasn’t his fault.” Her words caught in her throat, and she fidgeted with the drawstrings of her hoodie, squinting against the wind.

Beyza frowned. “Pınar? What did she do this time?” she asked, irritation creeping into her voice. She stopped throwing stones and crossed her arms.

“They teased me, said I was clinging to Yiğit,” Gizem murmured, her voice trembling. “And in the team photo, Pınar stood close to him on purpose… And like an idiot, I cried in my room.” Her eyes stung, but she held it back, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs with the salty air.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out—Yiğit’s name flashed on the screen. Her heart raced. Don’t say hello, she muttered to herself, her hands sweating. She placed the phone on the rock beside her. “Should I not answer?” Panic laced her voice as she glanced at Beyza.

Beyza looked surprised. “Who is it?” she asked, then snatched the phone before Gizem could react. “Yiğit? Answer it, what are you waiting for?” she said eagerly. Before Gizem could protest, she pressed the button and handed it back. “Talk to him!”

Gizem hesitantly took the phone, bringing it to her ear. “Hello?” she said, her voice cold, but a storm raged inside her. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath quickened.

“Gizem, it’s me,” Yiğit said, his voice calm yet eager. The faint echo of the locker room hummed in the background, and the distant voices of his teammates could be heard. “How are you? Yesterday… I don’t know, did something happen? Did I say something wrong?”

Gizem fell silent, thinking to herself: Is he asking me? But he’s innocent… “I’m fine,” she said, her voice distant. “Nothing happened. Why did you call?” Her words were sharp yet trembling as she pressed her fingers against the rocky surface.

Yiğit hesitated for a moment. “Come to the match,” he said with genuine eagerness in his voice. “I want to see you in the stands. You spoke harshly yesterday, and I thought maybe I did something wrong… I don’t know, I’m confused. But seeing you would help, really.” His breath quickened, and there was tension in his voice.

Gizem’s breath caught. He wants to see me? But what about Pınar… “I don’t know, Yiğit,” she said, her voice cold yet shaky. “I’ll think about it, we’ll see.” Inside, she wondered: Why am I talking like this?

Yiğit’s voice softened. “Alright, but… it would be nice if you came,” he said, pausing briefly. “Yesterday, when I scored, my eyes searched for you in the stands. That energy is different. The match is about to start, but I’ll wait for you, okay? If you come… I don’t know, I’ll feel good.” There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, but he didn’t insist. “See you,” he added, and then hung up.

Gizem placed her phone on the rocks, her gaze drifting to the waves. The wind hit her face, and she remained silent. Beyza immediately asked, “What did he say? Tell me!” Her voice was full of curiosity as she threw an arm over Gizem’s shoulder, eyes gleaming.

“He asked me to come to the match,” Gizem said uncertainly. “He said he wants to see me… He looked for me in the stands yesterday, that’s what he said.” She fiddled with the drawstrings of her hoodie. “But I don’t know, Beyza. What if Pınar does something again? They came at me yesterday, mocked me about Yiğit.”

Beyza grinned. “Yiğit wants you, forget about Pınar,” she said boldly. “You were upset yesterday, but now you have a chance. It could even be like an apology if you go.” She reached out her hand and looked at Gizem.

Gizem stayed silent for a moment, gazing at the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks. She thought to herself: Maybe I should go… I was unfair to Yiğit.

When Yiğit hung up, silence settled over the locker room. Gizem’s coldness lingered in his mind. Why is she so distant? Is she hiding something? He ran his hands through his hair, adjusted the collar of his jersey, and tried to steady his breathing. Just then, Mert burst through the door. “Yiğit, come on! The match is starting!” he called, his voice urgent. He clapped Yiğit on the shoulder, his eyes shining. Yiğit nodded. “I’m coming,” he said, but he was deep in thought. He grabbed the ball and stepped onto the field, the concrete floor squeaking under his shoes. He looked at the stands—Gizem was still not there.

Pınar’s voice rang out again, “Yiğit, come on!” but he ignored her.

Yiğit thought to himself: Is she really not coming?

The referee blew the whistle, and the match began. 11-B started aggressively; in just the 3rd minute, they stole the ball at midfield, charged down the right wing. Their forward dribbled past the defense, faced the goalkeeper—struck hard, and the ball soared into the top corner of the net. 1-0.

The crowd roared. Yiğit clenched his teeth. I need to pull myself together, he thought, but his mind was scattered. Mert shouted, “Yiğit, wake up!” Yiğit took the ball and started running, passing to Mert, but Mert was caught off guard and lost possession. 11-B launched a counterattack; a long pass, their forward slipped behind the defense, the goalkeeper rushed out—but he was dribbled past, and the shot went into the empty net. 2-0. It was only the 7th minute.

Yiğit put his hands on his hips, panting. Why is my head like this? They had one chance in the first half; Yiğit crossed the midfield, entered the penalty area, took a powerful shot—straight into the goalkeeper’s arms. In the 12th minute, 11-B attacked again; a cross from the left, their forward leapt for a header, the goalkeeper stretched out but couldn’t reach—3-0. The first half ended, and the stands were silent. 12-A was crushed.

The locker room was tense. Kaan shouted, “Yiğit, get it together! We have to win this, first place is in our hands!” His voice was filled with frustration as he slammed his hands against the bench, his face flushed. Can added, “Where’s your head at, captain? You were asleep in the first half!” Yiğit buried his head in his hands. “You’re right,” he admitted, his voice tired but resolute. “We’ll turn it around in the second half, I promise.” Mert calmed down. “Alright, let’s spread out the wings, feed Yiğit,” he said strategically, glancing at his teammates.

Yiğit lifted his head, looking at the stands—at that moment, he saw Gizem and Beyza. They had just arrived, standing in a corner. Gizem turned toward him, their eyes met, and a small smile appeared on her lips—shy, but warm. Yiğit’s heart pounded. She came… She’s smiling at me! His eyes gleamed, determination sparked in him. “We’re turning this game around!” he shouted, facing his team, clenching his fists, and jumping to his feet.

In the stands, Pınar, Beste, and Zeynep noticed Gizem. Pınar frowned. “She’s here again. Guess the princess couldn’t leave her prince alone,” she sneered, folding her arms.

Beste muttered, “Yeah, as if we needed this.”

Zeynep shrugged. “Forget it, let’s watch the game.” Their gossip was cut short, but their eyes never strayed to the field—they kept whispering among themselves.

The second half began, and Yiğit was a different player. In the 17th minute, he stole the ball, crossed midfield, and passed to Mert. Mert sprinted down the right wing, dribbled past the defense, sent in a cross—Okan leapt in the box, struck a header, and the ball was in the net. 3-1. The crowd erupted, chants of “12-A!” filled the gym. Yiğit glanced at the stands, spotted Gizem, and smiled. This is for her.

At the 20th minute, 11-B launched an attack; a long pass from midfield, their forward challenged the defense, took a shot—the goalkeeper parried it, corner kick. They sent in a header, but it bounced off the post. Yiğit took the ball, dribbled rapidly, broke through the defense, passed to Kaan. Mert crossed it in, Emre controlled the ball, took a powerful shot—the goalkeeper stretched, but couldn’t reach. 3-2. The crowd went wild. Yiğit threw his hands up, shouting at his team, “Come on, push!”

In the 25th minute, Yiğit took the ball again, dribbled past a defender at midfield, sprinted forward, entered the box—one-on-one with the goalkeeper, a composed strike, and the ball hit the net. 3-3. The stands exploded. Yiğit glanced up, winked at Gizem, his breath quickened.

And then, in the final minutes, he soared for a header, scored the winning goal—4-3. 12-A had secured first place. As the referee blew the whistle, cheers filled the air.

Yiğit ran to Gizem after the game. “Thanks for coming,” he said breathlessly, his dark eyes shining.

Gizem smiled. “You played well, Yiğit,” she said softly.

Yiğit grinned. “Seeing you changed everything.”

Gizem’s heart raced. And in that moment, something unspoken yet complete lingered between them.