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 unraveling. Dusty streets, gray 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 afterward said everything without saying the words: 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.

Rumors 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, 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, 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 like 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 Third 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 way too much body spray. The nostalgia hits hard. I toss my bag in the back and slide into the passenger seat. He grins, all confidence and easy charm.

I laugh. “You still drown yourself in this stuff?”

He flips through radio stations until something poppy and ridiculous fills the car.

“Better than your depressing indie playlists,” he says. “At least mine has a beat.”

“A bad beat,” I shoot back.

Laughter fills the space between us, and just like that, it’s as if no time has passed. Miles slip by as we trade updates and insults, our rhythm snapping back effortlessly. Inevitably, talk turns to soccer.

“I heard about Falkenberg,” he says with a smirk. “Hope you didn’t get sore from the bench.”

I give him a sideways look. “Didn’t think you worried about my ass that much. Should I be flattered?”

He bursts out laughing, and I join him. “You’re still an idiot,” he says.

“And you still can’t take a joke.” I grin. “But seriously—Eldermoor’s been climbing fast. Guess I left you just in time to make you look good.”

“I’d say I did more than look good,” he counters. “You might have to fight for your old spot.”

I let out a rich laugh. “Please. I’d have scored more goals than the rest of you combined.”

“Cocky as ever,” he mutters, shaking his head.

We’ve always pushed each other. Always reached for the same goals. The same heights.

—

By the time we reach my new place, the trunk’s full of boxes, and the air smells like new paint and cardboard. The floorboards creak under our feet as we haul everything inside.

Eventually we collapse onto the living room floor—two grown men surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and dusty sunlight.

“Pizza?” Nate asks, sprawled on his back.

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

He glares. “What?”

“I’m on keto,” I say, dead serious.

He groans. “Man, don’t let Freya hear that. You’ll never live it down.”

“Freya?” I tease. “Is that your girl?”

The way he says her name—soft, hesitant—tells me everything. “It’s complicated.”

“Do I know her?”

“She moved here after you left. Astrid’s granddaughter—you remember, the woman who runs Thorhorn Bakery.”

A flicker of recognition hits. “Yeah. Never met anyone who could bake bread and terrify you at the same time.”

He laughs. “That’s her.”

He glances over, tone shifting. “So… did you leave anyone behind?”

I exhale slowly. “No one worth holding onto. Moving this much doesn’t leave room for promises.”

“Still the lone wolf,” he says with a grin.

“Better that than pretending I’ve settled down.”

“You used to break hearts for fun.”

“Please,” I scoff. “You broke more than I did—you just blamed the league schedule.”

We dissolve into laughter, the kind that carries years of friendship in its echo.

His phone buzzes. Freya’s name flashes on the screen before he turns it face-down.

“Looks like you’ve got plans tomorrow,” I tease.

He smirks but says nothing, and that silence tells me more than he means it to.

When the food arrives—pizza for him, salad for me—we sit on the floor eating straight from the boxes. The conversation softens, warm and familiar. Old camaraderie settles into the space between us, something steady where uncertainty used to live.

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