The final whistle had long since faded.
The celebrations, however, continued.
Blue-and-white scarves swayed across the stands as Dinamo Tbilisi’s players walked around the pitch, applauding the supporters who had stayed until the very end.
Three priceless points.
Another comeback.
Another match in which the teenager wearing number **55** had changed everything after coming off the bench.
Near the center circle, a small podium had already been prepared.
The stadium announcer’s voice echoed around the ground.
“Ladies and gentlemen…”
“Tonight’s Man of the Match…”
“…Vakhtang Salia!”
The home crowd applauded loudly.
The veteran striker smiled as he accepted the glass trophy.
Two goals.
A captain’s performance.
No one questioned the decision.
During the post-match interview, Salia remained as humble as ever.
“I’m happy to score.”
He smiled.
“But football is a team game.”
He glanced toward the Dinamo players still walking around the pitch.
“And our young number fifty-five…”
“He made both goals possible.”
“I just had to finish.”
The reporter laughed.
“So you’re giving him some credit?”
“Some?”
Salia grinned.
“I’m giving him plenty.”
Later that evening, television studios across Georgia once again replayed the highlights.
One analyst pointed toward the screen as Giorgi’s no-look pass flashed across it.
“This…”
he said, pausing the replay.
“…is football intelligence.”
Another nodded.
“Everyone expected him to shoot.”
“So did the goalkeeper.”
“So did the defenders.”
“He sees something nobody else sees.”
The presenter smiled.
“Vakhtang Salia deserved the Man of the Match award.”
The panel agreed immediately.
“Absolutely.”
“Two goals.”
“Outstanding performance.”
“But…”
One pundit leaned forward.
“If we’re talking about the most influential players…”
“Giorgi Loria has to be among the MVPs.”
The others nodded.
“In two appearances…”
“He’s produced one goal…”
“…and three assists.”
The presenter chuckled.
“Not a bad start to professional football.”
The following morning…
Giorgi experienced something completely unfamiliar.
School.
Usually, he arrived quietly.
Attended classes.
Went home.
Most students barely noticed him.
Today…
That was impossible.
The moment he stepped through the school gates, heads turned.
“There he is!”
“Number fifty-five!”
“I watched your goal!”
“No, the assist was even better!”
Within seconds, several boys surrounded him.
Some wanted to shake his hand.
Others wanted photographs.
One simply stared at him before blurting out,
“Bro…
that fake shot…”
“That was insane.”
Giorgi laughed awkwardly.
“Thanks.”
The strange part wasn’t the compliments.
It was who they came from.
Students who had never spoken to him before now acted as though they had been lifelong friends.
One boy slung an arm around his shoulder.
“You remember me, right?”
Giorgi politely smiled.
“Of course.”
He had absolutely no idea who the boy was.
Another appeared holding a football.
“Can you sign this?”
“Sure.”
Then another.
“And mine?”
Then another.
“My little brother loves you.”
Football boots…
Two lunchboxes…
And even someone’s school tie.
During break, a particularly energetic classmate cornered him.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh?”
“If you score against Gagra…”
“You have to do this celebration.”
He immediately demonstrated.
He sat down on a nearby bench.
Pretended to unwrap something.
Then mimed taking huge bites out of an invisible burger.
“Like you’re eating the biggest burger ever!”
Several nearby students burst into laughter.
Giorgi couldn’t help smiling.
“…That’s certainly creative.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I…”
The boy clasped his hands dramatically.
“Please!”
“It’s legendary!”
Giorgi scratched the back of his head.
“I think…”
“…it might be a little too much.”
“Aww…”
The disappointed groans from the group made everyone laugh.
“I’ll think about it,” Giorgi said, trying to escape.
“You promised!”
“I said I’d think about it!”
“You definitely promised!”
“I definitely didn’t!”
The laughter followed him all the way to his next class.
Despite all the attention…
He handled it surprisingly well.
He thanked people.
Smiled.
Answered questions.
Then quietly returned to being himself.
The footballer.
Not the celebrity.
The remainder of the week passed almost peacefully.
School.
Training.
Gym.
Recovery.
Homework.
Sleep.
The routine that had shaped his life for years remained unchanged.
If anything…
He trained even harder.
Because now expectations existed.
One good performance could be dismissed as luck.
Three…
Began creating belief.
Three days before the final match of the season…
The squad gathered after training.
Ferdinand Feldhofer held a clipboard in his hands.
“As usual…”
he began,
“…I’ll announce the starting eleven now.”
Players instinctively straightened.
Everyone wanted to hear their name.
The manager listed the goalkeeper.
The defenders.
Midfielders.
Then…
“The forwards…”
He glanced briefly at Giorgi.
“Vakhtang Salia.”
A pause.
“Giorgi Loria.”
For a split second…
Giorgi thought he had imagined it.
Several teammates looked toward him.
Vakhtang smiled knowingly.
Ferdinand continued speaking as though nothing unusual had happened.
But Giorgi barely heard another word.
He…
Was starting.
Not on the bench.
Not waiting for an opportunity.
From the very first whistle.
His first professional start.
When the meeting ended, Ferdinand called him over.
“Nervous?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
The manager smiled.
“It means you care.”
Giorgi nodded.
“I won’t let you down.”
“I know.”
Ferdinand placed a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s exactly why you’re starting.”
— Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
The days disappeared faster than Giorgi expected.
Before he knew it…
Matchday had arrived.
The final league match of the season.
**FC Gagra**
vs
**Dinamo Tbilisi**
Away from home.
Hours before kickoff, another major story dominated the football news.
The headline spread rapidly across every sports website.
**FERDINAND FELDHOFER TO LEAVE DINAMO TBILISI AFTER SEASON**
The Austrian manager had declined the club’s offer of a new contract.
During an interview, he explained his decision simply.
“I’ve given everything I can to this club.”
“I’m proud of what we’ve achieved.”
“But it’s time for a fresh challenge.”
“Serie B presents an opportunity I couldn’t ignore.”
Supporters reacted with mixed emotions.
Some understood.
Others wished he would stay.
Regardless…
Today’s match would be his farewell.
The pre-match television broadcast naturally focused on the departing manager.
“He deserves enormous credit,” one analyst began.
“When he arrived, Dinamo lacked consistency.”
“They’ve become genuine title challengers again.”
Another nodded.
“And don’t forget…”
“He trusted academy players.”
The screen displayed a photograph of Giorgi.
“Without Feldhofer…”
“I’m not sure we’d even know who this young man is.”
Attention soon shifted toward the opposition.
The presenter pointed toward the league table.
“FC Gagra are already relegated.”
“No matter today’s result…”
“They’ll be playing in the second division next season.”
One analyst immediately raised a finger.
“That doesn’t make them harmless.”
He tapped another graphic.
“Remember…”
“Just a few matches ago…”
“They defeated league leaders Iberia 1999…”
“Two-nil.”
Highlights from that upset appeared.
Beka Gabiskiria scored the opening goal.
Later, Giorgi Papuashvili controlled midfield brilliantly.
Vano Mchedlishvili added another outstanding performance.
“They have quality.”
“They simply haven’t been consistent.”
Another pundit agreed.
“If Dinamo underestimate them…”
“They’ll regret it.”
The presenter smiled.
“So…”
“What are you looking forward to most?”
The answer came instantly.
“Giorgi Loria.”
The studio laughed.
“I thought you’d say that.”
“It’s his first professional start.”
“We’ve already seen what he can do from the bench.”
“Now…”
“We’ll discover what he can do over ninety minutes.”
Inside the away dressing room…
The atmosphere felt strangely calm.
No speeches.
No shouting.
Only quiet focus.
Ferdinand walked toward the tactical board.
“This is my last match with you.”
The room fell silent.
“I don’t want gifts.”
“I don’t want promises.”
He looked every player in the eye.
“I want a performance.”
His gaze stopped briefly on Giorgi.
“Play brave.”
“Play together.”
“Play for the badge.”
Then he smiled.
“And enjoy football.”
The players rose together.
One final huddle.
Hands stacked in the center.
“Dinamo!”
The shout echoed through the room.
As the team walked toward the tunnel, Giorgi glanced down at the number stitched onto his shirt.
**55.**
Two weeks earlier, he had dreamed of making his debut.
Now…
He was walking onto the pitch as a starter.
His biggest test was about to begin.