The team is only three years old, but we’ve already earned promotion to a higher league. This season, we have to prove it wasn’t beginner’s luck.

I remember the match that sealed our promotion like it was yesterday. Late afternoon, the light slanting gold across the field. I scored the winning goal in the final minutes—our victory sealed in that heartbeat of disbelief before the crowd erupted. We’ve laughed ever since about The Lucky Sock—a mismatched pair Ashley wore that day by accident. Now it’s our team’s good-luck charm.

Turning the corner, I take a sharp left behind the clubhouse and pass the long row of lockers. I open ours and spot Gemma wiping the wooden benches with a damp towel, her hand moving fast and firm, scrubbing at a stubborn mark.

Gemma always stands out in Eldermoor. Every few months, her hair changes colour—this time, charcoal black fades halfway into crimson red.

“I don’t know if I can take this the whole season,” she mutters, tossing an empty juice box into the trash. Her frustration echoes against the tiled walls. Ashley kneels nearby, picking up popsicle sticks, candy wrappers, and empty cartons. She stacks them neatly in her hands before dropping them into the bin.

Ashley is Gemma’s opposite—quiet, methodical, endlessly patient.

“I bet Markus and Jay left work early just to pull this off,” she says, shaking her head.

Last year, Nathaniel and I made a bet—and I lost. He scored a goal that curved clean through the defenders’ gap, the shot no one expected. Then he went on to score a hat trick. I still remember him searching for me in the crowd afterwards, that grin of his, pure satisfaction. My heart swelled with pride and something else I still can’t name. Watching him play always left me star-struck.

Sharing our locker room with the eight- to ten-year-old boys this season has brought a special kind of chaos—funny, loud, and strangely grounding.

“Nothing like a warm welcome,” I joke as I step in. Gemma and Ashley look up, surprised, pausing mid-clean.

“Fuck, you came,” Gemma blurts, her voice trembling with relief. She tosses a handful of wipes into the trash. They’re the only ones—besides Nathaniel—who know what this day means for me.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Being around friends is better than spending the evening alone. Grandma’s keeping our ritual—lighting a candle, sharing memories of my parents. I’ll join her later. It keeps them with us somehow.”

Ashley moves toward me, opening her arms. “Then let’s start with a hug.”

Gemma rolls her eyes but steps in too, pulling us both into a tight, awkward embrace. “Fine. Group therapy, soccer edition.”

Our three shades of hair brush together as we bow our heads. For a moment, silence holds us—just breathing, remembering. Then Gemma breaks it.

“What if the boys have lice?” Her tone wobbles just enough to make us laugh.

Ashley grins, patting her shoulder. “Relax. My mom’s got a stockpile of lice shampoo. I’ll bring you one.”

Our practice field lies far from the clubhouse, so we trek across the grounds, our laughter softening the tension in my chest. My new pink soccer shoes squeak with each step. Around us, players stretch calves, coaches bark orders, and the sharp scent of cut grass fills the air. The hum of anticipation runs through the field like static.

As practice begins, the sun dips low. Sweat cools against my skin—a reminder that the real work starts now.

Coach Reynolds blows his whistle, the sharp sound slicing through chatter. We form a loose circle around him. In his fifties, he has the look of a man who’s seen it all, pride tempered by discipline.

“Alright, ladies, gather round!” he calls. “Last season, you showed what you’re capable of. That promotion wasn’t luck—it was earned. Hard work, heart, and skill got us here. Now it’s time to build on that.”

He lets the words hang, gaze sweeping over us. “You’re not just playing for yourselves anymore. Eldermoor’s women’s team is semi-pro now. Bigger crowds. Tougher opponents. Higher stakes. Step up.”

Then he adds, “Micha quit suddenly. We’ll need to fill her spot as striker.”

The name hits like a blow. My stomach twists. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gemma and Ashley exchange glances. I mouth, We’ll talk later.

Even hearing her name makes me nauseous. Micha and I had been rivals in the best way—pushing each other higher, faster, sharper. She was my friend, my mirror, until that night.

After the championship party, I found them—Nathaniel and Micha—half-dressed, laughter fading when I walked in. Her voice still burns in my mind: It’s not like he’s yours. Not really.

A few days later, she said it again—colder, deliberate. You and Nathaniel were never official, Freya. You can’t blame me for making a move.

The memory still claws at me.

Practice is brutal today. Every sprint, every tackle demands focus—no space for dark thoughts. I chase the ball until my lungs sting and my muscles shake, pouring everything into motion.

When training ends, the field empties. Coach Reynolds walks off with the others. Gemma, Ashley, and I stay behind to gather equipment, stowing balls and cones in the shed under the floodlights.

“Micha left?” Gemma says softly, more to herself than to us.

Ashley’s gaze finds mine. “You left things okay with her?”

I hesitate. “I think so. What happened wasn’t cool, but it’s not like Nathaniel and I were… official.”

Gemma grimaces. “And they fucked?”

“No,” I say firmly.

Nathaniel swore he hadn’t slept with her—and I believe him. But it still felt like betrayal. The glances, the closeness, the whispers that night—it broke something between us. Maybe if I’d been more honest about how I felt, he wouldn’t have drifted. The regret still catches in my throat.

Gemma suddenly grips my arm. “Looks like he wants a moment of your time.”

I turn. Nathaniel walks toward our field. The girls quietly slip away.

Under the floodlights, his platinum hair gleams, damp from a shower. A single droplet slides down his temple before he wipes it away—my pulse quickens.

His footsteps crunch softly on the grass. His eyes—green like glass holding sunlight—meet mine. That same intensity, tempered now with uncertainty. For a moment, I almost pity his discomfort, torn between his strength and the vulnerability he hides.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, cautious. “How are you doing?”

Heat rises in my cheeks. My phone buzzes in my pocket; I grab it quickly and switch it off—anything to keep from fidgeting.

Nathaniel arches an eyebrow. “Shutting out the world?”

“Something like that,” I say with a half-smile.

He hesitates. “Did you get my text this morning?”

My chest tightens. The memory of that message—Thinking of you today—still lingers. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I saw it. I didn’t reply.”

His expression softens. “I get it. Some days are harder than others.” His gaze doesn’t waver.

I look up, meeting his eyes. That old spark is still there—flickering between us, fragile but alive.

“So,” he says after a moment, “any plans this weekend?”

“We’ve got a game Saturday,” I say. “Then a girls’ night.”

He nods. “Sounds good.”

“What about you?” I ask, my voice steadier now.

“I’m picking up an old friend from the airport,” he says. “Helping him settle in.”

I raise a brow. “Sounds like quite the job.”

Nathaniel laughs softly. “He’s a bit of a diva.”

I laugh too, and something in me unclenches. “If you’re free Sunday,” I say before I can stop myself, “we could watch the Grandchester game.” The invitation tumbles out, my heart pounding.

Relief flickers across his face. His lip trembles slightly before he exhales, the sound soft and human. His whole frame relaxes—as if he’s been holding his breath for months.

“I’ll make time,” he says, voice quiet but sure.

And just like that, hope takes root again—small, trembling, impossible to ignore.