When I wake in the morning, all of this is going to be one huge fucking nightmare, and I can forget it ever happened.
Chapter 4
Zac
Noah Bentley is a fucking arsehole. Three weeks since our first game, he’s still treating me like I’m the dirt beneath his shoe and throwing me under the bus for his screw-ups in the back line.
In our latest game, he went in for a late slide tackle in the box and gave away a penalty. Even some of the best keepers in the English Premier League can’t do anything against that. Coach Johnson was pissed, and directed his dire at our captain. That only made Noah shittier with me.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that he’s being weird around me in the change rooms, either. It’s no secret that I’m bi, but the team knows me well enough to trust I’m not checking them out in the showers. At least, everyone but Noah.
“What’s his problem?” I mutter under my breath when I exit the showers with Ritter, our towels wrapped around our waists.
Noah shoots us a disgusted look as he pulls on his shirt. He grabs his bag and storms out, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
Ritter shrugs. “Ignore him.”
“Easy to say when he’s not riding your back and blaming you for every missed save.”
My teammate grimaces. “I take my hat off to you, man. Being a keeper is a thankless job.”
I huff a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.”
He claps me on the back. “Whatever his problem is, he’ll get over it. You’re good, man. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got quick hands, and you read the play just as well as Peters ever did. Half the time you’re off your line before the striker even realises he’s got a shot.”
My lips tug into a smirk as I slip my shirt over my head. “I wasn’t asking you to blow smoke up my arse.”
He chuckles. “Just telling it like I see it.”
“Maybe he’s secretly in love with you,” Everett teases from the other side of Ritter.
I scoff. “Fuck off, Mathers. Our captain’s straighter than a fucking steel beam. Even if he was in love with me, I don’t go for dickheads.”
My teammates laugh, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m not ashamed of who I am. Never have been. But this kind of masculine toxicity among athletes seeps into everything—the change room banter, the half-joking slurs, the way everyone pretends it’s harmless.
I finish getting dressed and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Catch ya later, boys.”
The late afternoon sun bleeds golden light over campus as I head towards the library. The semester has only just started, but I already know it’s going to kick my arse. I’m in my fourth and final year of my psychology degree, completing honours, which means advanced coursework, placements, lots of research, and a major thesis project. Add in our gruelling training regime and I’ll be lucky if I have time to sleep and eat for the next nine months.
I push through the doors to the library and make myway to my usual table, only to groan when I spot none other than my grumpy arsehole of a captain sitting with a group of students three tables over. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I contemplate leaving, but fuck him. He doesn’t own the library.
I choose the seat that angles my back to him and place my Beats over my ears before pulling out my laptop. The back of my neck prickles, but I ignore the feeling and open my research project, staring at the title:Masculinity, Emotional Expression, and Help-Seeking Behaviour in Male University Athletes.
Fitting. I’m studying the same shit I’m living through with my captain.
The dude is the epitome of toxic masculinity with the way he avoids me like I’m contagious or puts me down and berates me on the pitch. He’s clever about it, too, muttering comments when no one else will hear him. The glares and filthy looks are harder to hide, but everyone just brushes them off as normal tension between teammates. Boys will be boys. No one wants to believe the captain’s a prick, so they laugh it off or change the subject. Meanwhile, I’m wondering how many more sideways looks I can take before I finally snap—or worse, believe I deserve them.
Realising I’ve spent too much time thinking about the arsehole behind me than actually working on my research paper, I press play on one of my daily mixes and scroll through my notes—quotes about conformity, emotional suppression, and toxic team culture.
My thoughts wander again. Most of the guys on the team don’t care that I’m bi. The guys from Beckford have known me since high school, and those who moved here for university have been pretty accepting of my sexuality. There have been a few jokes here and there, but nothing cruel. Our previous coach never tolerated that kind of behaviour.Coach Rourke ran a tight ship, expected us to show up on time, play hard, and be decent human beings while we’re at it. He demanded loyalty, and the team was successful because of it.
Coach Johnson’s no different. If anything, he’s even tougher on the attitude stuff, always preaching respect and teamwork. That’s why I can’t figure out why the heck they handed the armband to Noah fucking Bentley this season. His leadership skills suck, his attitude sucks, and his basic humanity… you guessed it, it sucks.
My phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts, and I look down at the screen.
Milly: Yo, doofus. Mum wants to know if you’re going to be home for dinner?
I check the time and see it’s just past seven. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and barely made a dent in my research paper. Slamming my laptop shut and removing my Beats, I pack my bag and get to my feet, stretching.
