Five Years Ago

Nathaniel — 17

The alarm buzzes at 6:00 a.m., but I’m already awake.

I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding with leftover awkwardness from last night. Slowly, I reach down and gather my clothes from the floor.

The girl cocooned in my sheets shifts.

Stacy?

Sandy?

Lucy?

I honestly can’t remember.

Embarrassment burns hot under my skin. Better to leave before she wakes up. I slap the alarm off, pull on my shirt and sneakers, and slip out of my room — discomfort and relief pushing me toward the door in equal measure.

Downstairs, the kitchen lights are already on.

Mom stands at the stove in her robe, coffee in one hand, flipping an omelette with the other.

She grins when she sees me.

“Breakfast is ready, Superstar. Don’t make me come over there.”

I grin back, tying my sneakers before pulling out a chair.

“Big game today,” she says, stirring her coffee. “You nervous, Mr. Captain?”

“Not really.” I lean back, cocky grin locked in place. “We’ve got this.”

She plates the omelette, sprinkling fresh-cut chives from her garden on top, then pours orange juice with quiet precision.

A rush of gratitude hits me.

None of my friends’ moms compare.

“Your sports bag’s packed. Lunch is in the side pocket.”

That calm efficiency washes away the awkwardness upstairs.

I dig into the omelette. With every bite, the tension fades.

By 7:00, I’m in the garage. I grab my bike, sling my sports bag across my shoulder, and pedal into the crisp morning air. Condensation sparkles on Mom’s flowers in the sunlight.

At the corner, Markus rolls out of his driveway.

We’ve known each other since kindergarten — same school, same class, same team. He’s basically my brother.

He smirks.

“Ready? Bet some girls show up.”

I shoot him a grin. “Glad we’re playing away. Less drama.”

We laugh, talking about girls like we know anything about them.

At the bike racks, we park and head inside. Students call out our names as we pass. Markus and I are both popular — but I outrank him.

And yeah. I like it.

Since we’ve got a game, we skip class and gather at the field.

Coach’s expression is tight.

“Rick broke his leg yesterday.”

The team groans.

Then he gestures to someone standing slightly apart.

“This is Kaiden Matthews. Played at his old school. He’ll fill in today.”

Kaiden stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes flickering between us. A Grandchester trikot peeks out beneath his half-zipped hoodie.

Grandchester.

Top club.

The club.

The one I plan on playing for.

I step forward first, sly smile in place.

“Grandchester. Big club. Are you actually a fan or just like the colors?”

“Yeah,” he says evenly. “Lineup looks better than last year’s.”

I grin.

“Let’s hope it plays better too.”

He shrugs.

After introductions, we board the bus to our rival school. Phones come out immediately — memes, videos, loud laughter drowning out the driver’s radio.

The driver practically sighs in relief when we arrive.

Game time.

Kaiden surprises me.

Even as a substitute, he slips into open space like he’s been playing with us for years. Clean touches. Smart positioning. No hesitation.

He doesn’t talk much.

Just watches.

Adjusts.

Learns.

I notice.

We win 5–2.

Three goals are mine.

On the bus ride back, I nudge him.

“You should join our club. If you can keep up.”

He meets my eyes, something sharper there now.

“Depends. You actually captain this team or just like the title?”

My jaw tightens — just for a split second — before a smirk replaces it.

“Careful. I might start charging rent if you’re planning to live in my position.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Relax. I don’t borrow spots. I take them.”

There it is.

He gathered enough information.

Now he bites.

I tilt my head, voice casual — precise.

“Big talk for someone who only knows how to assist.”

Silence.

Just a second too long.

His eyes twist — not hurt.

Focused.

Teeth press together.

The air shifts.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him decide if he’s here to compete — or to orbit.

I lean back in my seat, satisfied.

When I shut it, Mom is standing there.

Arms crossed.

That look.

Relief turns to dread.

I didn’t tell her about the girl upstairs.

“Do what you want,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “But don’t make me her therapist.”

My stomach drops.

“Linda was crying downstairs. Did you even know it was her birthday?”

Linda.

Right.

“She mentioned something,” I mutter.

Mom flicks my chest.

I try to walk past her, but she grabs my sleeve.

“I drove her home. Bought her a sweater. Told her to make better choices,” she says flatly.

That stings less than she thinks it will.

I shrug.

She studies me for a moment, then her expression softens.

“You know, Nate… one day you’re going to meet a girl who turns your perfect little world upside down.”

A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips.

“And you’re going to love her for it.”

I roll my eyes.

Soccer is my world.

Girls come and go.

The game doesn’t.

It’s loyal.

Demanding.

Clear.

Nothing — and no one — pulls me off that field.

Not a chance.

I lie back on my bed, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.

My phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen.

Hale.

My pulse shifts before I even open it.

I’m in town.

One-on-one session.

Be there.

I stare at the words.

The match flashes through my mind.

The breakaway.

The goals.

The hunger that never really leaves.

I can do more.

I’m not done.

Excitement crawls up my spine — sharp, electric.

This is what matters.

This is what counts.

I sit up.

I type back.

I will.

And just like that —

The path is clear.