“Stone!”
My ears feel stuffed with cotton wool.
“Tieran!” I snap back into reality, the pitch coming intolaser focus as a dozen men in varying jerseys barrel towards me.
My place on the field puts me in the closest proximity to the try line, and I look over to see Ekon readying to lob the ball in my direction. I catch it in time and rush forward, desperate to get this goal for the team, to prove to everyone I’m not out just yet. I can save this—I have to. The country is watching. Dad is watching.She’swatching.
Bron is hot on my heels, shouting anything he can think of to tear me down.
Miracle you haven’t been subbed by now.
You’ll be out of a job by the end of the season.
And then, he goes in for the kill.No wonder Olivia slagged you off for that bloke on Newcastle.
The reminder of my ex’s infidelity, that I wasn’t enough to keep her happy and the entire world knows it, almost makes me trip, but I push harder, knowing my men are doing what they can to keep Newcastle from getting to me.
I’m within two metres of the try line, and I can practically taste the grass on the other side of that white zone marker. If I can get us this goal, maybe I can prove I’m worth giving another shot.
One metre away, and I dive for the line, extending my arm and the hand holding the ball as far as it will go—right as Stamwell clamps onto my calves, dragging me back. We hit the ground with a resounding thud that echoes throughout my body, sending pain splintering up my torso, the ball never leaving my hand.
But when I look up, it’s to find it two inches away from the in-goal, and no time left on the clock.
I failed.
Stamwell lifts himself off me, jogging backward as he salutes. Sitting up, I rest my arms on my knees for a moment before Cav helps me up and claps his hand on my shoulder in solidarity.
“It’s alright; it’s just the first match.” He’s always solevel headed; nothing fazes him, and I envy his ability to self-regulate his nervous system.
I walk off the pitch, toward the tunnel and all the post-game interviews I’m about to endure, and the people who were once faceless now burst into crystal clear view. A mix of anger and disappointment lines each and every one of their faces as they watch me walk past, shame making it unbearable to look any of them in the eyes.
An hour later, after soul crushing pressinterrogationsand a debrief from Ballard, I’m standing in the showers, letting scalding hot water beat down my back and give me second degree burns. Absent-mindedly, I note that the pressure coming out of the pipes has significantly improved—Jade’s doing, if I had to guess. She’s left no stone unturned.
“You coming to the pub, Cap?”
I glance back to see a couple of the younger guys gathered, all dressed for a night out. Envy roils through me, hotter than the water pelting down on me at their ability to shake off the night’s loss so easily.
“Nah, I gotta get home.” They almost look disappointed, though I can’t imagine why after our defeat. I quickly add, “Next time, though.” I wouldn’t next time either. I’m not good company after a loss, last year proved that.
After I finish washing up and change into fresh clothes, I head out of the locker room and toward the staff car park. But I never make it there. Of their own accord, my legs carry me until I find myself back on the center of the pitch. The stadium lights are blindingly bright, a stark contrast against the empty, quiet stands. Despite the lack of noise around me, all I can hear is the collective disappointment that ran through the crowd sitting in these seats when the final whistle was blown.
My heart races, my head spins, my knees bend until I plop down in the middle of the field as the night grows darker by the minute, trying and failing to calm my racing mind. I drop my head between my legs.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“You know you won’t get overtime pay for moping on the pitch after hours.” I nearly jump out of my skin, having not heard her walk up.
“It’s alarming, how quiet you are,” I grumble.
“My father taught me to never let them see you coming.”
I huff, plucking blades of grass out of the turf, thinking she’s succeeded, because I’ve never once seen her coming. Well—no, not going there.
Subtly looking her over, I take in her game day outfit of beige plaid dress trousers accented with a sleek belt and a white button down. She has simple gold hoops looped through her ears and black stilettos dangling from her hands. That shocking realisation causes me to look down at her bare feet, painted a delicate robin's egg blue. It’s oddly endearing, that little spot of colour when she only ever wears neutrals, as if that’s the only spot on her body where she allows herself to let loose—somewhere no one will see.
The juxtaposition of that fact makes something in my chest tighten.
“What are you doing out here, Tieran?” she asks, not gently—never gently with her.
