Sport Tournaments : Part 4

When Gizem's eyes opened to the dim morning light, the town’s gray sky seeped through her window. She sat up in bed, pulling the blanket to her chest, her fingers tangled in its soft fabric. She couldn’t shake the memory of Yiğit running to her after the match, breathless, thanking her—those deep brown eyes, his sweat-dampened hair, that sincere smile… She grabbed her journal and began scribbling:

Day 26: Yiğit thanked me yesterday. His eyes sent chills through me. Everything changed when he saw me in the stands… I love him, but what if he’s thinking about me too? Today is the quarter-final. I’ll be in the stands again. Why is my heart racing like this?

As she placed the pen on the desk, a whisper rose from inside her: This town is turning me into someone else. She got up, threw on a gray sweatshirt and a worn-out pair of jeans, tied her hair in a messy bun, and looked in the mirror—there were faint shadows under her eyes, but a small glimmer of hope on her lips. I don’t know what will happen today, but watching Yiğit…

In the kitchen, Nuray had set the breakfast table; a plate of toast sat on the counter, olives in a small dish, sliced cheese, and steam rising from the teapot. Nuray’s face was calm, her hair tied back, her movements unhurried. Hakan was at the table, glasses slipping down his nose, buried in his newspaper; his coffee cup swayed slightly in his hand.

“Good morning,” Gizem said, sitting down, her voice still carrying traces of sleep. She took a bite of toast, the warmth melting in her mouth as her eyes flickered across the table.

Nuray turned to her, holding a teacup. “Good morning, dear. There’s a match today, right?” she asked, motherly curiosity in her voice, her eyes studying Gizem.

“Yes,” Gizem replied, a hint of excitement in her tone. “Quarter-finals. Against 10-A. I’ll be in the stands.” Watching Yiğit, she thought, her cheeks warming slightly as she sipped her tea.

Hakan glanced up from his newspaper and grinned. “I bet Yiğit’s going to put on a show again, huh?” he said teasingly, adjusting his glasses.

Gizem smiled. “I hope so,” she said, thinking, I wish things were that simple. She grabbed her bag and pedaled through the town’s narrow streets; the wind brushed against her face, the salty sea air filled her lungs. Fishermen were gathering their nets on the shore, seagulls screeched in the sky, streetlights were still on—the town was waking up in quiet serenity.

By the time she arrived at the gym, the stands were already filling up; the town’s youth waved banners that read “12-A to the Finals!”, chants echoing through the air. Gizem climbed up the bleachers, finding a spot in the corner, her eyes scanning the court. Then she saw him—Yiğit, tall in his black jersey, dribbling the ball, talking to his teammates. Her heartbeat quickened. Yiğit lifted his head and looked toward the stands. Their eyes met.

Gizem raised her hand slightly in a shy wave, a small but warm smile forming on her lips. Yiğit’s face lit up—he smiled back, raising his hand in return, his deep eyes shining for a brief moment. He sees me… He’s smiling at me, she thought, her heart pounding as he bounced the ball and turned back to his team.

Meanwhile, in the cafeteria, Pınar, Beste, and Zeynep sat at a table, sipping their coffee from plastic cups. Pınar tossed her hair back.

“Did you see Yiğit yesterday?” she said with a teasing sweetness in her voice, her eyes scanning the table. “As soon as the match ended, he ran straight to Gizem. He literally waited for her to come down from the stands.”

Beste giggled, placing her cup down. “Yeah, he couldn’t take his eyes off her,” she said, pursing her lips and raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on with them, seriously?”

Zeynep nodded. “Something’s up, for sure,” she said quietly, staring into her coffee. “Yiğit treats her differently. When he went up to her after the match yesterday… I don’t know, he had this look in his eyes.”

Pınar frowned. “The new girl shows up, and suddenly Yiğit is all over her,” she muttered, jealousy laced in her tone. She placed her coffee down a little too forcefully. “She plays the drums, plays volleyball, and now she’s sitting in the stands like some kind of princess. Yiğit keeps running after her.”

Beste smirked. “Maybe Yiğit is actually in love with her,” she said, unable to hold back a laugh, shooting a playful glance at Zeynep. “Drums on stage, cheers from the stands… What’s next? Holding hands in the hallway?”

Zeynep turned to Pınar. “You’re close to Yiğit. Why don’t you do something about it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, curiosity in her voice.

Pınar pursed her lips. “I don’t have to do anything. Yiğit should figure it out himself,” she said, eyes glinting as she crossed her arms. “But this Gizem girl… She’s too comfortable. Let’s see how long this lasts.” She took a sip of her coffee, lips tightening as she got up from the table.

At the same time, down by the seaside, Yiğit and his teammates—Mert, Emre, Kaan, Can, Okan, Baran, and Ali—had gathered for their morning meeting. Waves crashed against the rocks, the wind whipped around them, the air thick with the scent of salt. Yiğit held the ball in his hands.

“We’re crushing 10-A this time,” he said firmly, his eyes scanning the team. “Let’s talk about what went wrong in the last match.”

Mert frowned. “We always lose control in the first half,” he said sharply, clenching his fists. “We keep losing possession in midfield. Remember, we were down 3-1 in the first game.”

Emre nodded. “He’s right,” he muttered, throwing a small rock into the sand. “I keep opening up on the right, but the passes come too late. If Mert had passed earlier yesterday, I could’ve scored our second goal in the first half.”

Kaan crossed his arms. “Defense was asleep last match,” he said seriously, his gaze shifting to Yiğit. “We got caught on the counter. I messed up too. But today, I’ll lock it down.”

Can shrugged. “I’m holding down the goal, but keep the ball in front of me,” he warned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yesterday, I was bombarded with shots. The defense better not open up again.”

Okan smirked, eyes burning with determination. “I speed down the left, but what’s the point if I don’t get the ball?” he shot Mert a look. “Two chances slipped away last match. If you pass earlier, I’ll finish them.”

Ali added, “If I step in at midfield, I’ll push the tempo,” his voice confident. “Yesterday, I distributed the passes, but Mert, you and I need to connect more.”

Yiğit nodded. “You’re all right. This time, we stay locked in,” he said, leadership in his voice as he bounced the ball. “Mert, control the midfield. Emre and Okan, spread the wings. Kaan, shut down the defense. Can, hold the goal. I’ll finish the job upfront.”

Mert raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh, by the way, Yiğit,” he teased, nudging him. “What’s going on with you and Gizem in the stands?”

Emre chuckled, “You ran up to her after the match yesterday. What are you two talking about?” he said, nudging Yiğit with his elbow.

Kaan nodded, “Is something going on, captain?” he asked, calm but curious, a small smile on his lips.

Can grinned, “If you have your princess in the stands, we’ll crush the opponent,” he said teasingly, narrowing his eyes.

Okan burst into laughter, “Yiğit, what are you planning with Gizem?” he asked, raising his eyebrows with a smirk.

Baran shrugged, “You’ll tell us eventually,” he said, calm but slightly mocking.

Ali added, “Is our captain in love or what?” he said, grinning as he threw an arm around Yiğit’s shoulder.

Yiğit’s cheeks turned bright red. “Don’t talk nonsense,” he said, his voice shaky, his eyes dropping to the ground. He kicked the ball hard, the sound echoing across the beach. “Focus on the match, enough!” 

Inside, he thought: Why are they cornering me like this? I look like an idiot. His embarrassment was written all over his face, his palms were sweating. The team laughed and dispersed, but Yiğit’s mind was a mess.

Before the match, Yiğit walked toward the stands, hands in his pockets, his steps hesitant. He saw Gizem, and his heart raced. He approached her, his gray t-shirt rippling in the wind. “Hey,” he said, his voice trembling, his gaze dropping to the ground before he gathered his courage and looked at her. “Yesterday… I said we should meet, right? I mean… Being with you… It gives me strength. I don’t know if that sounds weird.” His cheeks flushed as he ran his fingers through his hair, smiling shyly.

Gizem was surprised. Watching Yiğit like this, she felt a warmth inside, her heart fluttering in her chest. “Okay,” she said softly but sincerely. “And I’ll always come to watch your matches… Watching you is nice.” Her eyes met Yiğit’s, a small smile appearing on her lips, her cheeks slightly reddening.

Yiğit’s face lit up. “Alright, then let’s meet after the match,” he said, grinning, his eyes sparkling. “Thank you, really… Seeing you… It’s different.” He paused for a moment, looking at Gizem, then ran toward the field, thinking: Why am I getting so flustered?

The referee blew the whistle. The match began. In the first half, 12-A dominated the field.

In the 2nd minute, Mert pressed the opposing captain in midfield, stole the ball, and shouted, “Emre, run!” Emre sprinted down the right wing, controlled the ball, dribbled past the defenders, and crossed into the penalty area—Yiğit trapped it with his chest, turned, and struck a fierce shot with his left foot into the corner. The goalkeeper stretched, but the ball hit the net: 1-0. The crowd erupted. Gizem clapped, and Yiğit smirked at her, raising his fist in the air.

In the 5th minute, Okan surged down the left flank. “Mert, pass it!” he called. Mert sent a long ball, Okan carried it forward, evaded the defender, and faced the goalkeeper—he placed a shot with his right foot, the ball hit the side netting: 2-0.

In the 8th minute, 10-A attempted an attack, but Kaan slid in front of the striker and stole the ball. “Ali, take it!” he shouted, passing it forward. Ali played a quick one-two with Mert, then sent it to Emre—Emre cut inside from the right and controlled the ball in the box. He struck a powerful volley into the top corner, the goalkeeper could only watch: 3-0. The first half ended 3-0, 10-A was completely crushed.

In the second half, 12-A did not slow down.

In the 18th minute, Kaan cleared the ball from defense, shoulder-barging an opposing midfielder out of the way. “Yiğit, finish it!” he called, sending a long pass. Yiğit took the ball, dribbled past two defenders, and entered the box—the goalkeeper rushed out, but Yiğit coolly slotted it into the right corner: 4-0. The stands went wild, chants of “Yiğit! Yiğit!” filled the air.

In the 25th minute, Mert pressed hard and stole the ball in midfield. “Okan, run!” he yelled. Okan sprinted down the left, received Mert’s pass, and took a shot—the ball hit the post and rebounded. Yiğit, waiting in the box, nodded it into the net: 5-0. 10-A made a final attempt, crossing from the left, but Can rushed out of goal, punching the ball away. Baran shouted from the sideline, “Finish this!” The match ended 5-0, and 12-A advanced to the semi-finals with a crushing victory. The stands were on their feet, cheering filled the arena.

After the match, Yiğit ran toward Gizem as she climbed down from the stands, breathless, his jersey drenched in sweat. “You were amazing in the stands,” he said excitedly, his eyes shining. “Seeing you… We destroyed them.”

Gizem smiled, “The team was incredible, but you… You played amazingly,” she said softly, her eyes locked onto Yiğit’s. Inside, she thought: The way he looks at me… My heart might stop.

Yiğit gathered his courage, shoving his hands into his pockets, then pulling them out again. “After the match… Want to meet at the café by the shore?” he asked, his voice slightly trembling, his eyes dropping before meeting hers again. “We’ll have something to drink, talk… Just the two of us. Like we said this morning?” His cheeks turned red, and he held his breath.

Gizem’s heart raced, her cheeks flushing. “Okay,” she said, excitement in her voice. “I’ll wait for you… In front of the café from that day.” She looked at Yiğit, their eyes met, a silence filled with tension stretched between them.

Yiğit grinned, “Alright, I’ll meet you in front of the café,” he said, relaxing. “I’ll just celebrate with the team and come.” He glanced at Gizem one more time before turning back to the team, but his mind was still on that smile.

Gizem walked down to the shore, stopping in front of the small café in town. The sun had set over the horizon, the sky shifting from orange to blue; waves lapped gently against the shore, the breeze tousling her hair. Wooden tables were lined up outside the café, yellow lanterns casting a dim glow, candles flickering on the tables, filling the air with the scent of vanilla. She stood for a moment, tucking her hands into her pockets. What if he doesn’t come? she thought, but when Yiğit’s shy smile came to mind, warmth spread through her.

Minutes later, Yiğit arrived, holding two cups of coffee, his black t-shirt replacing his jersey, his hair messy from a shower, but his eyes gleaming. “Seeing you here… It’s better than the match,” he said warmly, handing her a coffee, a small smile on his lips, his eyes fixed on hers.

Gizem took the coffee, feeling the warmth of the cup against her fingers. “Thank you,” she said, smiling shyly. “Watching the match… Watching you was amazing.” She looked at Yiğit, her heart pounding, took a sip of coffee, leaving a small mark on her lips.

Yiğit sat at the table, holding his coffee. “You’ve been on my mind since yesterday,” he said, his voice low but sincere, his hand moving closer to hers on the table. “Seeing you in the stands… I don’t know, everything became easier. We crushed them, but my mind was always on you.” His eyes roamed her face as the wind played with her hair.

Gizem’s breath hitched. “Me too,” she whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about you, Yiğit.” Her fingers brushed against his on the table.

Yiğit smiled, tightening his fingers slightly. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured. Their coffees grew cold, but their conversation was just beginning.