The foul had left the entire stadium holding its breath.
Just outside the penalty area.
Slightly to the left of the goal.
Perfect territory for a right-footed free-kick specialist.
Jaduli Iobashvili placed the ball carefully on the grass before taking several steps backward.
Giorgi stood nearby, studying the angle.
The wall.
The goalkeeper.
The distance.
Everything.
Jaduli noticed him staring.
“You want it?”
Giorgi looked at his teammate.
“…Can I?”
Jaduli smiled immediately.
“You’ve earned it.”
He stepped away from the ball.
“It’s yours.”
“Thanks.”
The referee waited patiently as Gagra’s wall was measured.
Four players.
Five.
Finally six.
Oleksandr Vorobey continued shouting instructions.
“One more to the right!”
“Stay together!”
“No gaps!”
Giorgi took a deep breath.
Then another.
The world around him slowly disappeared.
The chants.
The whistles.
The cameras.
None of it mattered anymore.
Only the ball.
He carefully positioned himself to the right of it.
Anyone watching football would reach the same conclusion.
“Jaduli is taking this.”
After all…
The ball sat to the left of goal.
A right-footed player would naturally curl it over the wall.
Giorgi himself was right-footed.
The television commentators reached the same conclusion.
“It looks as though Jaduli Iobashvili will be the one to strike this.”
“That certainly seems the obvious choice.”
Vorobey thought exactly the same.
His feet shifted slightly, anticipating the expected curl.
The referee checked the wall.
Raised the whistle.
Tweet!
Jaduli sprinted forward.
Vorobey tensed.
The wall jumped.
Then…
Jaduli never touched the ball.
He simply leapt over it.
The goalkeeper instinctively shifted his weight.
Only slightly.
But it was enough.
Giorgi arrived a split second later.
Instead of striking with his stronger right foot…
He hit it with his left.
Cleanly.
No spin.
A knuckleball.
The ball exploded off his boot.
At first…
It seemed to fly directly toward the goalkeeper.
Then it drifted.
Left.
Suddenly back right.
Then left again.
Vorobey couldn’t read it.
Neither could the wall.
The ball floated unnaturally through the air.
Dancing.
Swerving.
Changing direction with every yard it travelled.
The commentator almost screamed.
“Look at that movement!”
Vorobey launched himself desperately.
His fingertips reached nothing.
The ball dipped one final time.
Straight into the top-left corner.
The net snapped violently.
Goal.
For a moment…
Nobody spoke.
Even the commentator needed a second.
He fell silent, and then…
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”
“GIORGI LORIA!”
“WHAT IS THIS BOY MADE OF?!”
“A LEFT-FOOTED KNUCKLEBALL!”
“I HAVE NEVER…”
“…I HAVE NEVER SEEN A PLAYER DO THAT!”
Replays rolled instantly.
Every angle looked impossible.
No spin.
Violent movement.
The goalkeeper guessed correctly…
And still had absolutely no chance.
This celebration was different.
No “SIUUUU!”
This time…
Something inside Giorgi felt different.
His confidence had grown with every goal.
Every assist.
Every cheer.
He sprinted toward the home supporters.
Thousands of Gagra fans booed loudly.
Giorgi stopped in front of them.
He calmly raised one finger to his lips.
Silence.
Then lowered both hands.
Moving them downward repeatedly.
Calm down.
Relax.
The away supporters exploded into laughter and celebration.
The home crowd erupted in anger.
Boos echoed around the stadium.
Some supporters threw their arms into the air.
Others shouted insults that disappeared beneath the noise.
The commentator chuckled nervously.
“Well…”
“I’m not sure that celebration will make him popular in Gagra.”
Before Giorgi could even move again…
Blue shirts buried him beneath another pile of celebrating teammates.
Nika Ninua wrapped him in a hug.
“What was that free kick?!”
“I don’t know!”
Giorgi laughed honestly.
“I just hit it.”
Vakhtang Salia, watching from the bench, shook his head.
“Ridiculous.”
Absolutely ridiculous.”
The scoreboard now read:
<>FC Gagra 0–3 Dinamo Tbilisi<>
The match…
Was over.
Even if the clock said otherwise.
Gagra tried restarting.
They passed the ball.
Moved forward.
Attempted one or two attacks.
But something had disappeared.
The belief.
Their energy.
The red card.
The third goal.
Relegation already confirmed.
Everything combined into one crushing feeling.
Acceptance.
Dinamo comfortably controlled possession.
Every pass drew cheers from the travelling supporters.
Every interception drew applause.
Every minute moved them closer to the final whistle.
The commentator summed it up perfectly.
“Gagra look like a team that knows its season has ended.”
When the referee finally blew for full time…
No one on the pitch looked surprised.
The match had belonged to Dinamo.
The away section erupted.
Players applauded the travelling supporters.
Supporters chanted one name louder than every other.
“Loria!”
“Loria!”
“Loria!”
The sixteen-year-old looked up toward them and clapped back.
He still couldn’t believe any of it.
Three matches.
Three unforgettable performances.
Moments later, the stadium announcer confirmed what everyone already knew.
“Today’s Man of the Match…”
“…Giorgi Loria!”
The away supporters roared even louder.
He accepted the award with a shy smile before posing briefly for photographers.
Yet…
As he looked around the stadium…
He felt something growing inside him.
Confidence.
Belief.
Perhaps…
Something more dangerous.
A few minutes later, Giorgi walked into the media area for the first post-match interview of his career.
Bright lights.
Television cameras.
Microphones.
Reporters from all over Georgia.
He sat down, still slightly out of breath.
The interviewer smiled.
“Congratulations, Giorgi.”
“Thank you.”
“Three incredible performances.”
“How does it feel?”
He smiled modestly.
“It still doesn’t feel real.”
“I just want to help the team.”
Another reporter raised his hand.
“Many young players talk about their football heroes.”
“Who inspired you to become a striker?”
Giorgi didn’t hesitate.
“My father.”
The room became noticeably quieter.
“He supported me from the moment I first kicked a ball.”
“I play because of him.”
Several reporters nodded respectfully.
Another journalist laughed before asking the next question.
“We have to ask…”
“The burger celebration.”
The room burst into laughter.
Giorgi covered his face.
“Oh no…”
“I knew someone would ask.”
“So…”
“What was that?”
He sighed dramatically.
“A classmate dared me.”
The room laughed again.
“I promised him I’d do it if I scored.”
“So…”
He shrugged.
“I kept my promise.”
“Will we ever see it again?”
He immediately shook his head.
“No.”
“Never again.”
The room laughed even harder.
Then…
One final reporter stood up.
He hadn’t smiled once.
His notebook remained closed.
“Giorgi.”
“You’ve had an excellent few matches.”
“But isn’t it a little early for everyone to get carried away?”
The room became quieter.
“You’ve only played three games.”
“Can you honestly continue performing like this next season?”
Giorgi answered calmly.
“I’ll keep working.”
“I know football changes quickly.”
“I still have a lot to improve.”
The reporter nodded.
Then, almost under his breath…
Quiet enough that he probably thought the microphones wouldn’t catch it…
“We’ll see how long the hype lasts.”
The sentence reached Giorgi perfectly.
Something inside him snapped.
Not anger.
Pride.
He looked directly at the reporter.
His voice remained calm.
Respectful.
But firmer than before.
“I understand why you’d ask that.”
The room watched silently.
“But…”
He leaned slightly toward the microphones.
“I honestly believe I’m already better than most strikers.”
A few reporters exchanged surprised glances.
Giorgi continued.
“If you disagree…”
“That’s perfectly fine.”
“Give me a list.”
The room remained silent.
“A list of strikers my age…”
“…who’ve done what I’ve done.”
Nobody answered.
The reporter opened his mouth…
Then closed it again.
Giorgi stood.
“Thank you, everyone.”
Without another word…
He walked away.
By the end of the evening…
The interview had spread across every sports channel in Georgia.
Some headlines praised his confidence.
THE CONFIDENCE OF A FUTURE STAR
Others admired his mentality.
LORIA REFUSES TO APOLOGIZE FOR BELIEVING IN HIMSELF
Many former players defended him.
“What did he actually say that was wrong?”
one pundit asked.
“Name another sixteen-year-old striker in Georgia producing numbers like that.”
Another nodded.
“Confidence isn’t arrogance.”
“You need confidence to reach the top.”
Of course…
Not everyone agreed.
The media, as always, searched for the loudest angle.
By midnight, new headlines had appeared.
TEENAGER CLAIMS HE’S BETTER THAN MOST STRIKERS
DINAMO WONDERKID STUNS REPORTERS
EGO OR ELITE MENTALITY?
Social media exploded into debate.
Some called him arrogant.
Others called him fearless.
Some loved him.
Others couldn’t stand him.
Giorgi, meanwhile, had already put his phone away.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
He wasn’t thinking about the headlines.
Or the celebrations.
Or even the three goals he had scored in three matches.
He was thinking about only one thing.
Next season.
Because somewhere deep inside him, a voice had begun whispering something that grew louder with every match.
This is only the beginning.