The days continued to pass.
And Giorgi Loria remained on the outside looking in.
Every training session was the same.
Work.
Correction.
Silence.
Repeat.
He no longer argued with Klaus Zimmer.
Not because he had changed his mind.
Because he had realised arguing achieved nothing.
If he wanted minutes…
He would have to earn them.
Early April brought Dinamo Tbilisi’s fifth league match.
An away fixture against FC Gareji.
Supporters refreshed their phones repeatedly as the matchday squad was released.
Again…
Number 55 was nowhere to be found.
Not in the starting eleven.
Not on the bench.
Not even travelling with the squad.
Social media erupted once more.
The reaction wasn’t as explosive as before.
People had almost begun expecting it.
Giorgi stayed home.
He watched the match from his living room.
Charlotte sat beside him for the first half before quietly leaving him alone.
She knew football was one of the few things he preferred experiencing by himself.
Dinamo played exactly as they had all season.
Disciplined.
Organised.
Patient.
A single goal midway through the second half proved enough.
Final score:
FC Gareji 0–1 Dinamo Tbilisi
Another win.
Another clean sheet.
Another match without Giorgi.
The television coverage had barely finished when his phone vibrated.
Eric McCain.
Giorgi answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“How are you holding up?”
Eric’s voice sounded calm, almost fatherly.
“I’m alright.”
“You don’t sound alright.”
Giorgi laughed quietly.
“I’ve been better.”
“I watched the match.”
“So did I.”
There was a brief silence.
Eric finally spoke.
“I sympathise with you.”
“I know how difficult this must be.”
Giorgi leaned back into the sofa.
“It’s frustrating.”
“I know.”
“But frustration can’t become impatience.”
Eric paused.
“Which brings me to something.”
Giorgi listened carefully.
“I’ve been speaking to a few clubs.”
“Three, to be exact.”
The teenager sat upright.
“They’re all in Europe’s top divisions.”
“They’ve noticed you.”
“They know what’s happening.”
“They also know you’re barely playing.”
Another pause.
“If you’re willing…”
“I could start preparing a transfer for the June window.”
The room became quiet.
Giorgi stared out the window.
Leaving?
Already?
He thought about Dinamo.
About his father.
About wearing number fifty-five.
About the supporters who still chanted his name despite never seeing him play.
“I appreciate it.”
He finally answered.
“Really.”
“But…”
“I want to stay.”
“For now.”
Eric wasn’t surprised.
“I thought you might say that.”
“We’ll talk again closer to June.”
“Deal.”
“And Giorgi?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens…”
“Don’t stop believing in yourself.”
“I won’t.”
After ending the call, Giorgi remained seated for several minutes.
Three clubs.
Top European leagues.
Interested.
Yet all he could think about was earning one place in Dinamo Tbilisi’s starting eleven.
Days passed.
Training remained demanding.
Zimmer remained demanding.
Neither man softened.
But something subtle had changed.
They argued less.
Not because they agreed.
Because both had begun communicating through football instead of words.
A few days later…
The entire squad gathered inside the analysis room.
Today’s opponent appeared on the projector.
Iberia 1999.
The reigning league champions.
Current league leaders.
Four matches played.
Four victories.
Perfect.
Zimmer replayed clips from their opening fixtures.
“They overload the left side.”
“They attack quickly after turnovers.”
“They’re dangerous from set pieces.”
He paused another clip.
Bakar Kardava.
“He creates more chances than anyone in the league.”
The players nodded.
Then another clip.
“Iuri Tabatadze.”
“A striker who attacks the six-yard box.”
“Do not lose sight of him.”
The meeting lasted nearly an hour.
Finally…
Zimmer pinned the team sheet onto the board.
Silence filled the room.
Starting eleven.
Vakhtang Salia.
Tornike Morchiladze.
The twenty-three-year-old had exploded into form.
Four goals in four league matches.
The league’s top scorer.
Nobody questioned his inclusion.
Further down…
The substitutes.
Number 55.
Giorgi Loria.
Back on the bench.
He quietly nodded to himself.
Better than watching at home.
Matchday arrived.
Mikheil Meskhi Stadium buzzed with anticipation.
First versus second.
The defending champions against the league’s unbeaten challengers.
The atmosphere felt electric long before kickoff.
The commentators built the tension.
“Iberia have won every match.”
“Dinamo remain unbeaten.”
“And perhaps the biggest surprise…”
“Giorgi Loria returns to the matchday squad.”
One commentator smiled.
“If Zimmer needs inspiration today…”
“He certainly has it available.”
The opening whistle sounded.
The first half…
Was cautious.
Neither manager wanted to concede first.
Both teams respected one another.
Midfield battles dominated possession.
Few clear chances emerged.
Halftime arrived.
<>0–0<>
The second half exploded into life almost immediately.
Only three minutes after the restart…
Bakar Kardava received possession near the left touchline.
He glanced up once.
Then curled a magnificent cross between Dinamo’s centre-backs.
Iuri Tabatadze arrived perfectly.
One simple touch.
Tap-in.
Goal.
The Iberia supporters erupted.
The away bench celebrated wildly.
The scoreboard changed.
<>Dinamo Tbilisi 0–1 Iberia 1999<>
Zimmer immediately turned toward his bench.
His assistants exchanged surprised looks.
Surely…
Not yet?
The German made his decision.
“Loria.”
Giorgi looked up.
“You.”
The teenager blinked.
“Warm-up’s over.”
“You’re going in.”
Even he hadn’t expected it.
He ripped off his training jacket.
Heart racing.
Finally.
The fourth official raised the substitution board.
OFF – Vakhtang Salia
ON – Giorgi Loria
The stadium applauded warmly.
Some supporters even stood.
Play restarted with a throw-in.
The ball came directly toward Giorgi.
His first touch was simple.
Back to midfield.
Exactly as Zimmer wanted.
The next few minutes looked almost textbook.
He stayed high.
Held his position.
Played one-touch passes.
Pressed only when instructed.
Watching from the technical area…
Zimmer nodded slightly.
He’s finally learning.
Good.
Then…
Everything changed.
Four minutes after entering…
Nika Ninua received possession under pressure.
Seeing no immediate option…
He played the ball backward toward Giorgi.
The teenager controlled it.
Looked up.
Something inside him awakened.
The cautious football disappeared.
The fearless boy returned.
One step-over.
Then another.
Then another.
The defender in front of him desperately shifted his weight.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
The movements came so quickly that his legs tangled beneath him.
He slipped.
Fell.
The stadium gasped.
“Giorgi has sent him to the ground!”
the commentator shouted.
Giorgi accelerated instantly.
Another defender rushed across.
Tornike Morchiladze made a brilliant run into open space.
Everyone expected the pass.
Giorgi shaped his body to pass.
The defender committed.
Then…
Nothing.
It had only been a feint.
Instead of passing, he exploded through the gap himself.
Passing throuh one defender.
Then another.
Then another.
And he was gone.
Like they weren’t there.
Suddenly…
Only Giorgi Makaridze remained.
The Iberia goalkeeper rushed forward.
Trying to close the angle.
Giorgi didn’t hesitate.
His right foot struck through the ball with unbelievable force.
BOOM!
The sound echoed around the stadium like a gunshot.
Makaridze barely flinched.
The ball screamed past him before he could react.
The net bulged violently.
Silence.
Then…
Absolute chaos.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”
“Giorgi Loria!”
“What an unbelievable solo effort!”
“He has just ripped the champions apart!”
Teammates sprinted toward him.
Supporters screamed his name.
But Giorgi wasn’t interested in celebrating.
Not yet.
He sprinted straight into the goal.
Grabbed the ball.
Tucked it beneath his arm.
And ran back toward the halfway line.
“Come on!”
he shouted.
“We’re not done!”
The scoreboard now showed:
1–1
Iberia restarted immediately.
Determined to respond.
They surged forward with urgency.
Passes became quicker.
Riskier.
Then…
A misplaced pass.
Only slightly under-hit.
For everyone else…
It looked harmless.
For Giorgi…
It looked like opportunity.
He appeared almost from nowhere.
Intercepting the ball before anyone realised what had happened.
“A phantom interception!”
the commentator yelled.
He drove forward and dribbled past one midfielder.
Approached the centre circle.
Then…
He slowed.
He looked up.
The defenders were retreating desperately.
The goalkeeper…
Giorgi Makaridze…
Had stepped several metres outside his penalty area to organise his defence.
Just for a second.
Just enough.
Most players would’ve continued dribbling.
Most players would’ve waited.
Giorgi didn’t.
Without warning…
He planted his right foot.
And struck with his left.
From well inside the opposition half.
The stadium collectively inhaled.
The ball soared impossibly high.
Higher.
Higher still.
Some supporters groaned.
“Too much.”
The goalkeeper relaxed.
He watched it.
Certain it would fly over.
Then…
The ball began to dip.
Rapidly.
Violently.
Makaridze’s expression changed instantly.
He sprinted backwards.
Leapt.
His fingertips stretched desperately toward the descending ball.
Too late.
CLANG!
The shot crashed against the underside of the crossbar.
Bounced downward.
Over the line.
Goal.
For a heartbeat…
Nobody made a sound.
Even the commentators were speechless.
Then the stadium exploded.
“HE’S DONE IT!”
“HE’S ACTUALLY DONE IT!”
“FROM INSIDE HIS OWN HALF!”
“Giorgi Loria!”
“You cannot script this!”
The roar shook the stands.
Blue scarves flew into the air.
Players chased after him.
But Giorgi didn’t run toward the corner.
He didn’t look at the supporters.
He spread both arms wide.
Turned slowly.
And looked directly at Klaus Zimmer.
Then he roared.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But as if he had finally released weeks of frustration in a single moment.
On the touchline…
Zimmer didn’t celebrate.
He simply stood there.
Expression unreadable.
Watching the sixteen-year-old who had just turned the biggest match of the season on its head.