The new year kicked off with a massive fixture for Jean's school: the U18 boys’ league match. This wasn't a standalone friendly, but a continuation of the tournament that had started back in October. The squad knew that if they performed well enough to reach the finals, the championship would be decided during the upcoming Easter break. It was a crucial part of their season, and the goal was finally within touching distance.

The pressure was real.

On that early morning the sky hung heavy with grey clouds. Jean stood on the touchline, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the pitch. Her instructions were clear: watch the match, study the command of the game, and learn from the Boys’ steadfast captain in action.

But as the opposition lined up, her gaze landed on someone else instead.

Elliot.

Wearing the rival school’s colours.

​Her jaw tightened. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned that.

​By the final whistle, her school had secured the win. The team erupted into celebration, teammates shouting and slapping backs, the heady high of victory rising in waves around them.

​But Jean’s focus never left the pitch. Never left him.

She was still half-expecting Elliot to disappear the way he'd unexpectedly appeared. Instead, he found her again, strolling over with that same carefree grin, as if the loss didn’t bother him in the slightest.

​“Well,” he said, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his track jacket, “even though I took a beating today, seeing you again felt like a win to me.” Elliot said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You have that effect, you know?”

Jean folded her arms across her chest, unimpressed. Her amber eyes, flecked with gold in the pale light, stayed fixed on him. Strands of chestnut brown hair, loosened by the wind, gently clung to her cheekbones. She didn’t bother brushing them aside.

​There was something sharp in the way she held herself: self-assured, slightly aloof, with the posture of someone who had long since stopped trying to impress anyone. Her expression, striking even without effort, hovered somewhere between amusement and suspicion.

​“You could’ve told me,” she said, her voice steady but edged.

​He simply shrugged, that infuriatingly charming smile with one dimple still in place.

​"Where's the fun in full disclosure?"

​Jean couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her.

​"You're an odd one."

​"At least I've achieved something today—caught your attention and got a laugh. Small victories, eh?" he quipped, his gaze lingering on her, a silent challenge in his words.

The moment hung between them, a fragile connection forming in the aftermath of the match. It was only broken by a sharp, commanding voice that cut through the air like a blade.

​"Jean. Meeting. Now."

​Julian stood a few metres away, arms crossed, expression like granite.

​She exhaled, almost annoyed.

​“Duty calls.”

​Elliot gave a mock bow.

​“Perhaps our paths will cross once again.”

​She jogged off without another word. Elliot’s gaze lingered on her retreating form until he noticed someone else watching.

​Julian.

​Still rooted in place. Still watching. His eyes were locked on Elliot, and whatever was in them wasn’t just curiosity.

​It was more like a predator sizing up its prey.

​That look? It was anything but friendly.

Meanwhile, in the players’ lounge, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the lingering adrenaline and camaraderie on the pitch. Coach Leo stood with his arms crossed, his steely gaze sweeping across the lads before settling—pointedly—on Jean, the last to arrive.

“Jean,” he said, his voice gravelled but calm. “Why are you always the last one in?”

​“Sorry, Sir,” she replied quickly, still catching her breath.

​“You’d do well to take a leaf out of Julian’s book,” Mr. Leo continued, his gaze softening slightly as he turned to their steadfast boy captain, Julian. “Maybe some of his discipline and leadership will rub off on you.”

​She kept her face neutral.

​“Understood,” she said, though the thought of shadowing Julian felt more like a punishment than a privilege.

​Mr. Leo’s tone shifted again. Firmer, but not unkind.

​“Still, strong performance out there. Our formation held. Pressure stayed consistent.”

​He turned to Julian with a nod.

​“And well done, you kept the line tight. Keep this up, and the scouts will be circling soon enough.”

​“Thank you, Sir,” Julian replied, his voice even and composed. Satisfaction radiated from him, but as always, it was controlled. Disciplined.

​Nothing more, nothing less.