Noah: Hey, I had a nice time at dinner last night. Just a heads up, my housemates are total dicks, and they’ve got it in their heads that something more happened between us. If Dane makes any smartarse comments in class, I want you to know I didn’t say anything.
Feeling like a giant arsehole, I toss my phone onto my desk and crack open my marketing textbook. My head is full of numbers and graphs when I get a reply ten minutes later.
Hannah: Well, now I feel kind of cheated Tell me, was I good?
Relief floods through me, but my grin fades when her next text arrives.
Hannah: Maybe you need to take me on another date, and we can really give them something to talk about?
Christ. How the hell did I get myself into this mess? I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen between my teeth, trying to figure out how to let her down gently. The last thing I need is for her to spread rumours around school that I took her on one date and let my mates talk shit about her. But I don’t want to lead her on when I’m not interested.
Fuck Dane and his big mouth.
Noah: I really did have a good time, but I’m not in the headspace for anything serious. I’d hate to lead you on. You’re a great girl. Any guy would be lucky to have you.
Except Dane, I think to myself as I press send.
I wait for a reply, but when nothing comes, I breathe out a heavy sigh. Either she’s totally cool with us being friends and she’s moved on, or she’s currently creating a Noah voodoo doll. Nothing I can do to change that now.
I return my focus to my books, opening my laptop and inputting the first dataset. Marketing analytics and consumer insight aren’t exactly thrilling, but there’s something calming about reading numbers and searching for patterns and outliers. I tweak a dataset, run another regression, and let the rhythm of it all pull me under.
Downstairs, Jasper and Dane are shouting at the television, no doubt watching a sports game. I block them out and get lost in rows of data and scatter plots until two-thirty, when the sharp, insistent trill of my alarm cuts through the quiet. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.
I save my work and pack away my books just as Jasper shouts that lunch is ready. I’ve been living with him since we both moved to Beckford eighteen months ago, and Dane moved in three months ago. We have our game day routine down to an art, no matter what time we play.
After scarfing down chicken and rice, I head to the games room to run through some stretches and use the foam roller to loosen up the knots in my calves and my lower back while Dane crashes out on the couch watching highlights from last week’s Championship League. The familiar burn works through my muscles as I roll over my quads, slow and deliberate, the pressure toeing the line between pain and relief.
“Oh, shit!” Dane shouts, scrambling to sit up, staring open-mouthed at the television. “It’s Whitford.”
I draw my gaze to the screen, and sure enough, our former captain is there, showcasing his incredible footwork and speed. It’s weird seeing a guy I played with tearing it upon the pitch in front of the world. I love the game, and I’m good at it—when I’m not distracted—but I never had aspirations to go pro.
Luca was a good captain. He cared about his teammates, often giving up his time to help us improve our game. Guilt lands like a heavy punch to the gut. I’ve let him down. I’ve been too selfish and caught up in my own issues to lead the team.
That changes today.
Usually,I ride to the stadium, preferring the solitude to get my head in the game, but today, I get a lift with the guys. We talk strategy after having watched the recording of Macquarie’s last game at training this week.
As we pull into the car park, Dane points out their keeper is weak in the air, constantly getting caught out of position on corners and mistiming his jump. Their defence plays a low block, so if our new striker, Blake Logan, can slip between their defensive and midfield lines, he’ll get a lot of shots on goal, and if he misses, we can hopefully force some corners.
He knows what he’s talking about. He’ll step up to be a good goalkeeper himself once Kincaid graduates at the end of this year.
My eyes dart to the man in question as I exit the car. He’s standing beside the stadium’s entrance, talking to two gorgeous girls. One of them—clearly a Banshee judging by the player jersey she’s wearing—laughs at something he says and places her hand on his arm.
Something stirs in my gut, but I push it down. If he wants to flirt with a couple of jersey chasers, who am I tostop him? My good mood from last night hasn’t dimmed, and I refuse to let him ruin it. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a weight has lifted from my shoulders, that I’m taking small steps to be myself.
I follow Jasper and Dane through to the change rooms and find Coach Johnson to debrief with him before I get ready for the game.
“Hey, Coach,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the open door.
He looks up from his clipboard, his expression tight. My eyes swivel to his assistant coach, Coach Raynor, sitting on his couch. He nods in greeting, and I return the gesture as I cross the office and slide into the seat across from Coach Johnson.
“Noah.” My stomach sinks at the head coach’s clipped tone.
“Everything all right?” I ask lightly, trying not to assume the worst.
He sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’re four and oh.”
A stat I’m well aware of.
