Airports show people at their rawest, goodbyes that cling, reunions that crack open even the toughest faces. Sitting alone on a stiff bench, waiting for my flight out of Falkenberg, I fall back into an old habit: reading strangers. My mother used to play this game with us while we waited for another army plane—spot the story, guess the secret, figure out who was running from something… or toward something.

Today, I know exactly who I am.
Someone desperate to run.

Leaving Falkenberg feels less like a decision and more like the final thread snapping on a long unravelling—dusty streets, grey skies, a club that used to feel like possibility. I poured everything into SC Falkenberg 08, tried to be the missing piece they’d never had. But in the end, all I got was the bitter taste of silence and betrayal.

The boardroom smile they gave me afterwards said everything without a word: you’re benched.

And sitting there week after week, watching loss after loss pile up, knowing damn well I could’ve turned the tide? That was humiliation in its purest form.

Rumours filled the gaps. They always do.

Every article called me a “journeyman striker,” like I was drifting on purpose instead of clawing for a place that would finally keep me.

Maybe that was the part that stung the most because I was tired of drifting. Tired of being the guy who arrived, impressed, and disappeared before roots could take hold.

I wanted to matter somewhere to someone.

Then Eldermoor reached out.

The Old Mill found me housing and lined up a job in their Athlete Program. Nathaniel texted me—casual, like always. Suddenly, I had a direction again. Maybe even the promise of a home.

Across from me, a mother wrangles three kids buzzing around her like caffeinated bees. The oldest keeps sneaking looks at me, trying—and failing—not to stare. Kids are terrible at pretending.

Eventually, he tugs her sleeve. She approaches, a polite smile in place.

“Sorry to bother you. My son thinks you’re Kaiden Matthews?”

“He’s right,” I say.

The boy beams so wide I’m surprised his face doesn’t crack. His awe is pure. Kids don’t fake awe.

I sign the Falkenberg jersey I’d planned to keep for myself. The boarding announcement echoes through the terminal just as I hand it over.

“Train hard,” I tell him. “Learn from your failures. That’s what lifts your game.”

He nods as I’ve just handed him the secret to the universe.

I wish it felt that simple.

Minutes after takeoff, I open my laptop and scroll through documents for the athlete program. Goals. Targets. The usual stuff—until one file catches my eye: a new initiative pairing players with local youth. That, at least, feels meaningful.

Then I freeze.

A full-page spread of Nathaniel stares back at me.

Eldermoor’s star brings home promotion: Midlands Second Division.
Will this year be Eldermoor’s third rise up the ranks?

A twist hits my chest—pride, jealousy, admiration, resentment, all tangled together. He’d become everything I wanted to be while I was rotting on a bench.

A woman beside me suddenly reaches over and tugs off one of my headphones.

“Are you Kaiden Matthews?” she asks, eyes shining a little too brightly.

I’m not rude, but I’m done being anyone’s trophy tonight. I’m not Kaiden Matthews, Professional Athlete. I’m just a guy on a plane trying to disappear for a few hours.

“No,” I say, gently guiding her hand away.

She pouts.

I put my headphones back on.

Nathaniel’s car smells exactly the same as it used to—disinfectant and something sharp layered over it. Too clean. Too controlled.

The nostalgia still hits.

I toss my bag in the back and slide into the passenger seat.

He glances at me, a grin flashing—quick, practised.

I let out a breath. “You still drown yourself in this stuff?”

He shrugs, flipping through radio stations until something loud and poppy fills the car.

“Better than your depressing indie playlists.”

“A bad beat,” I shoot back.

His grin lingers a second too long, like he’s holding it in place.

We fall into it anyway.

Jokes.

Insults.

Familiar rhythm.

It fits.

Too easily.

Miles pass like this, conversation snapping back into old patterns—almost automatic. Soccer comes up like it always does.

“I heard about Falkenberg,” he says, glancing at me. “Hope you didn’t get sore from the bench.”

I lean back, giving him a look. “Didn’t think you worried about my ass that much. Should I be flattered?”

He laughs—real this time.

“You’re still an idiot.”

“And you still can’t take a joke.”

A beat.

“But seriously—Eldermoor’s been climbing fast. Guess I left you just in time to make you look good.”

His grip tightens around the wheel.

“I’d say I did more than look good,” he says. His tone sharpens just a fraction. “You might have to fight for your old spot.”

I smile, slow. “Please. I’d have scored more goals than the rest of you combined.”

“Negative. You’re always ten seconds off,” he mutters.

His hands stay steady on the wheel.

Too steady, that’s new.

We’ve always pushed each other.

Always reached for the same things.

The same space.

—

By the time we reach my place, the trunk’s full of boxes. The air smells like paint and cardboard.

The floor creaks under our feet as we carry everything inside.

We don’t talk as much now.

Just movement.

Lifting.

Stacking.

Placing things exactly where they don’t belong yet.

Eventually, we end up on the living room floor.

Boxes everywhere.

Dust in the light.

“Pizza?” Nate asks, lying back, one arm over his eyes.

“See if they’ve got cauliflower crust,” I say.

He turns his head slowly. “What?”

“I’m on keto.”

He stares at me, then scoffs. “Don’t let Freya hear that. You’ll never live it down.”

He never mentioned her over text.

Why would he? It’s not like we ever had deep conversations.

“Freya?” I echo. “That your girl?”

That lands.

Something shifts in Nathaniel—small, but I catch it.

“It’s… complicated,” he says.

“Is she new?”

I’ve never heard that name before. She has to be.

“She moved here after you left. Astrid’s granddaughter. The bakery.”

Recognition clicks. “Right. The one who scares grown men over bread.”

That gets a real laugh out of him.

“Yeah. That’s her.”

He glances at me again, something more measured now.

“So… you leave anyone behind?”

I exhale slowly. “No one worth holding onto.”

Nathaniel’s lips press together. He looks at the menu on his phone, but his focus doesn’t land there.

“Moving like that doesn’t leave room for promises.”

He hums at that. Doesn’t push.

We both know there’s more there.

Neither of us touches it.

His phone buzzes.

Freya’s name lights up the screen.

He flips it face down.

Too fast.

“Looks like you’ve got plans,” I say.

He smirks, but doesn’t answer.

That silence says enough.

When the food arrives—pizza for him, salad for me—we sit on the floor, eating straight from the boxes.

For the first time in a long while, I feel something close to home.

But it doesn’t sit right. It should.