Five Years Ago
Nathaniel — 17 Years old
The alarm buzzes at 5:30 a.m.
I'm already awake.
Fifty crunches.
Fifty push-ups.
Yesterday I missed a goal during training.
Just inches from the crossbar.
Unacceptable.
I broke it down in my notebook before bed.
Wrong foot placement.
Wrong angle.
Wrong decision.
Seeing mistakes on paper always helps.
Talent only gets you so far.
The girl in my bed shifts beneath the blankets.
I forgot she was still here.
For a second, I stare at the ceiling.
Then at the alarm.
Then at the clock.
The match starts in three hours.
My thoughts are already on the pitch.
I pull on a shirt and grab my sneakers, closing the door quietly behind me.
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 compares.
“Your sports bag’s packed. Lunch is in the side pocket.”
"You're best."
My mom rolls her eyes dramatically, "I know."
I dig into the omelette. Amazing as ever.
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 rolls his bike beside mine.
“You bringing the notebook?”
“Obviously.”
“Good. Coach still thinks your corners are perfect.”
“They're not.”
Markus groans.
“See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“Three assists came from corners last month.”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
We park our bikes at the racks and lock them up.
Students are already gathering outside the school.
Some wave when they spot us.
Mostly me.
A few call out good luck for the match.
One guy steps over with a grin so wide it looks painful and reaches for my shoulder.
I take a step back before he can touch me.
I don't know his name.
That alone should disqualify him from touching me.
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, a sly smile in place.
“Grandchester. Big club. Are you actually a fan or just like the colours?”
“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.
That's important.
On the ride back, I get up from my seat and drop into the empty one beside him.
He looks surprised, shifting slightly.
Good.
He should be.
Most people come to me first.
Not the other way around.
“You should join our football 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 orbit.
I want to know how far I can push him.
I lean back in my seat, satisfied.
Five Years Ago
Nathaniel — 17 Years old
The alarm buzzes at 5:30 a.m.
I'm already awake.
Fifty crunches.
Fifty push-ups.
Yesterday I missed a goal during training.
Just inches from the crossbar.
Unacceptable.
I broke it down in my notebook before bed.
Wrong foot placement.
Wrong angle.
Wrong decision.
Seeing mistakes on paper always helps.
Talent only gets you so far.
The girl in my bed shifts beneath the blankets.
I forgot she was still here.
For a second, I stare at the ceiling.
Then at the alarm.
Then at the clock.
The match starts in three hours.
My thoughts are already on the pitch.
I pull on a shirt and grab my sneakers, closing the door quietly behind me.
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 compares.
“Your sports bag’s packed. Lunch is in the side pocket.”
"You're best."
My mom rolls her eyes dramatically, "I know."
I dig into the omelette. Amazing as ever.
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 rolls his bike beside mine.
“You bringing the notebook?”
“Obviously.”
“Good. Coach still thinks your corners are perfect.”
“They're not.”
Markus groans.
“See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“Three assists came from corners last month.”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
We park our bikes at the racks and lock them up.
Students are already gathering outside the school.
Some wave when they spot us.
Mostly me.
A few call out good luck for the match.
One guy steps over with a grin so wide it looks painful and reaches for my shoulder.
I take a step back before he can touch me.
I don't know his name.
That alone should disqualify him from touching me.
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, a sly smile in place.
“Grandchester. Big club. Are you actually a fan or just like the colours?”
“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.
That's important.
On the ride back, I get up from my seat and drop into the empty one beside him.
He looks surprised, shifting slightly.
Good.
He should be.
Most people come to me first.
Not the other way around.
“You should join our football 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 orbit.
I want to know how far I can push him.
I lean back in my seat, satisfied.
At home, I toss my sports bag by the door and grab a Coke from the fridge.
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?”
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.
Feelings complicate things. I don’t need that.
I shrug.
She studies me for a moment, then her expression softens.
“You know, Nate… one day you’re going to meet someone who turns your perfect little world upside down.”
A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips.
“And you’re going to love it.”
I roll my eyes.
Football is my world. The only thing that makes sense.
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.
Everything else feels… messy.
Unpredictable.
I lie back on my bed, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen.
Hale.
That’s clarity. It always has been.
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.
Kaiden finding the pass.
The goal that followed.
The hunger that never really leaves.
I can do more.
I’m not done.
Stopping isn’t part of it.
Excitement crawls up my spine, sharp, electric.
This is what matters. This is what decides everything.
I sit up.
I type back.
I will.
And just like that, the path is clear.
It doesn’t leave room for anything else.
At home, I toss my sports bag by the door and grab a Coke from the fridge.
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?”
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.
Feelings complicate things. I don’t need that.
I shrug.
She studies me for a moment, then her expression softens.
“You know, Nate… one day you’re going to meet someone who turns your perfect little world upside down.”
A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips.
“And you’re going to love it.”
I roll my eyes.
Football is my world. The only thing that makes sense.
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.
Everything else feels… messy.
Unpredictable.
I lie back on my bed, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen.
Hale.
That’s clarity. It always has been.
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.
Kaiden finding the pass.
The goal that followed.
The hunger that never really leaves.
I can do more.
I’m not done.
Stopping isn’t part of it.
Excitement crawls up my spine, sharp, electric.
This is what matters. This is what decides everything.
I sit up.
I type back.
I will.
And just like that, the path is clear.
It doesn’t leave room for anything else.
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