Giorgi barely slept.
Not because he was nervous.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he imagined stepping onto the pitch in a Dinamo Tbilisi first-team shirt.
By the time his alarm rang, he was already awake.
He showered, ate the breakfast laid out according to his nutrition plan, double-checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything, and left the house with his kit bag slung over his shoulder.
Charlotte smiled the moment she saw him.
“You’ve checked your bag three times.”
“I know.”
“You forgot something?”
“No.”
“Then why check it again?”
“…Just in case.”
She laughed.
“You really are nervous.”
“I’m excited.”
“That’s another way of saying nervous.”
Giorgi didn’t argue.
Maybe she was right.
The team bus departed shortly after midday.
Inside, the atmosphere was nothing like Giorgi had imagined.
There were no loud speeches.
No jokes.
No celebrations.
Just quiet concentration.
Some players wore headphones.
Others watched clips of Iberia 1999’s recent matches on tablets.
A few simply stared out the window.
Every player knew what was at stake.
Dinamo Tbilisi sat third in the league.
Their opponents…
Iberia 1999.
League leaders.
Eight points clear.
With only three matches remaining, defeat would all but end Dinamo’s hopes of lifting the trophy.
The bus slowed as the stadium came into view.
Supporters were already gathering outside, many dressed in the colors of the home side.
Giorgi looked through the window, taking everything in.
This wasn’t academy football anymore.
This felt…
Bigger.
Much bigger.
As the players stepped off the bus, cameras immediately pointed toward the senior stars.
Reporters shouted questions.
Fans leaned over barriers asking for autographs.
Hardly anyone noticed the sixteen-year-old quietly following behind the veterans.
And Giorgi didn’t mind.
He wasn’t here for attention.
He was here to learn.
Inside the tunnel, one of the assistant coaches clapped him on the shoulder.
“Stay close.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The home staff escorted Dinamo through the corridors before stopping outside the visitors’ dressing room.
The familiar Dinamo crest decorated the temporary lockers prepared for the away side.
Each player’s shirt hung neatly in place.
When Giorgi reached his seat…
He stopped.
There it was.
White lettering.
LORIA
Below it…
55
For several seconds he simply stared.
His fingertips brushed across the number.
It suddenly felt real.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He was officially part of the first team.
Most of the senior players greeted him politely.
“Morning.”
“Congratulations on the call-up.”
“Work hard.”
Nothing more.
No one ignored him.
No one bullied him.
But no one treated him like family either.
He was the academy kid.
A guest.
Someone who still had to earn his place.
Giorgi understood completely.
Today wasn’t about welcoming newcomers.
Today was about surviving ninety minutes against the league leaders.
Soon, the players emerged from the tunnel for the warm-up.
The instant Giorgi stepped onto the pitch…
His breath caught.
Thousands of supporters surrounded the field.
Objectively, the attendance wasn’t extraordinary.
A few thousand spectators scattered throughout the stands.
But to Giorgi…
It might as well have been one hundred thousand.
The noise echoed around the stadium.
Children shouted players’ names.
Drums pounded rhythmically from the home supporters’ section.
Flags waved proudly in the evening air.
For a brief moment, Giorgi simply stood there.
Listening.
Feeling.
Remembering every lonely training session after sunset.
Every sprint.
Every missed family gathering.
Every sacrifice.
All of it had led him here.
“Giorgi.”
One of the coaches tossed him a ball.
“Focus.”
He nodded immediately.
“Sorry.”
The warm-up began.
Short passing drills.
Dynamic stretching.
Possession rondos.
Sprint exercises.
Then shooting practice.
Although he wasn’t in the starting eleven, Giorgi attacked every drill with the same intensity he’d shown at the academy.
Several senior players quietly noticed.
The kid never slowed down.
Never complained.
Never stopped working.
As the warm-up drew to a close, Giorgi glanced toward the stands.
His eyes searched instinctively.
Then he found her.
Charlotte.
She stood near the middle rows wearing a Dinamo Tbilisi scarf, smiling brighter than anyone around her.
When she noticed him looking…
She waved enthusiastically.
Giorgi couldn’t help smiling.
He lifted a hand and waved back.
Charlotte laughed like a proud parent watching her child perform in a school play.
It didn’t matter that he was only on the bench.
He was here.
He had made it.
The whistle signaling the end of the warm-up echoed across the stadium.
The players jogged back through the tunnel.
The atmosphere inside the dressing room immediately changed.
The casual conversations disappeared.
Everyone focused.
Studs tightened.
Tape adjusted.
Shin guards checked.
Manager Ferdinand Feldhofer stood before the squad.
He waited until every pair of eyes was on him.
Then he spoke.
“They’re first.”
He pointed toward the tactical board.
“We’re third.”
Another pause.
“They’re eight points ahead.”
He looked around the room.
“I’ve heard what people are saying.”
“‘Impossible.'”
“‘Too much of a gap.'”
“‘The title race is over.'”
His voice grew firmer.
“Let them talk.”
“They don’t decide this league.”
“You do.”
He pointed toward the door leading to the tunnel.
“That pitch doesn’t care about league tables.”
“It doesn’t care about predictions.”
“It rewards the team willing to fight for every loose ball.”
His fist struck the tactics board.
“So fight.”
“Fight for each other.”
“Fight for this badge.”
“And when the final whistle blows…”
“I want them to remember exactly why Dinamo Tbilisi is the biggest club in this country.”
The room erupted.
Players clapped.
Several shouted in agreement.
The captain stood.
“For Dinamo!”
“For Dinamo!”
The response echoed off the dressing-room walls.
Even Giorgi joined in.
His heart pounded inside his chest.
The teams emerged from the tunnel.
Floodlights illuminated the pitch.
The anthem played.
The captains shook hands.
One final coin toss.
Then the referee checked both assistants.
Whistle.
Kick-off.
From the very first minute…
The pace was relentless.
Neither team showed the slightest intention of sitting back.
Iberia attacked.
Dinamo countered.
Dinamo attacked.
Iberia answered immediately.
The midfield became a battlefield.
Crunching tackles.
Shoulder-to-shoulder duels.
Sliding interceptions.
Every challenge carried meaning.
Every possession felt dangerous.
The supporters loved every second.
“So close!”
The commentator’s voice boomed through the television broadcast.
“Another chance for Dinamo!”
A dangerous cross flashed across the six-yard box.
No one could reach it.
Only moments later…
Iberia launched a rapid counterattack.
Their winger danced past one defender before firing low toward the far corner.
Mikheil Makatsaria reacted brilliantly, diving full stretch to push the shot around the post.
“What a save!”
The stadium exploded into applause.
Corner.
Cleared.
Counterattack.
Blocked shot.
Header over the crossbar.
The game refused to slow down.
Even from the substitutes’ bench, Giorgi found himself leaning forward constantly.
His eyes followed every movement.
Every tactical adjustment.
Every run off the ball.
He wasn’t just watching.
He was studying.
Whenever Dinamo lost possession, he mentally noted where the pressing trigger should have begun.
Whenever Iberia switched play, he observed how quickly their fullbacks advanced.
His notebook couldn’t come with him onto the bench.
Instead…
He memorized everything.
Twenty-three minutes.
The scoreboard still read…
0–0
Despite the scoreline, it had already become one of the most entertaining matches of the season.
Then disaster struck.
An Iberia midfielder burst through the center circle before being brought down by a desperate sliding tackle just outside Dinamo’s penalty area.
The referee didn’t hesitate.
His whistle pierced the air.
Free kick.
A dangerous one.
Only a few steps beyond the edge of the box.
Dinamo’s defenders immediately protested.
“He got the ball!”
“No chance!”
The referee simply pointed to the spot.
The decision stood.
Giorgi’s gaze shifted toward the man placing the ball.
Cheikhou Diouf Sylla.
One of Iberia’s dead-ball specialists.
The striker carefully adjusted the ball on the grass before taking several long steps backward.
The stadium gradually quieted.
Everyone knew what was coming.
Makatsaria organized his wall.
“Left!”
“A little more!”
“Hold your positions!”
Four defenders shuffled sideways.
Sylla stood motionless.
Eyes fixed on the target.
The referee backed away.
Raised the whistle.
A sharp blast echoed across the stadium.
Sylla exploded into motion.
One…
Two…
Three powerful strides.
His right leg swung through the ball with terrifying force.
BOOM!
The strike sounded more like an explosion than a football being kicked.
The ball rose over the wall before violently dipping toward the top corner.
Makatsaria didn’t even move.
By the time his body reacted…
The ball had already crashed into the back of the net.
1–0.
For a heartbeat…
Silence.
Then the stadium erupted.
A deafening roar engulfed the arena as home supporters leaped to their feet in celebration.
Flags waved wildly.
Drums thundered.
The commentator nearly shouted himself hoarse.
“WHAT A STRIKE!”
“CHEIKHOU DIOUF SYLLA!”
“AN ABSOLUTE ROCKET!”
“MAKATSARIA HAD NO CHANCE!”
“What a sensational free kick from the Iberia forward!”
Sylla sprinted toward the corner flag, his teammates chasing after him before piling into a jubilant celebration.
On the opposite side of the pitch, Dinamo’s players stood frozen.
Some stared at the goal in disbelief.
Others placed their hands on their hips.
Even from the substitutes’ bench, Giorgi could only exhale slowly.
There was nothing the goalkeeper could have done.
Sometimes…
A shot was simply unstoppable.
The scoreboard now glowed brightly above the stadium.
Iberia 1999 1–0 Dinamo Tbilisi.
With the league leaders in front and the title race hanging by a thread, Dinamo’s biggest test of the season had truly begun.