Eldermoor SC was buzzing by the time I arrived. Willowmere FC fans were everywhere, wrapped in those ridiculous white-and-blue scarves. Their colours looked like someone had set a picnic blanket on fire, but their enthusiasm was impossible to ignore. Flags snapped above the crowd, and the entire place vibrated with energy.

Their women’s team was facing ours—and even though I usually skipped the women’s matches, the guys hadn’t stopped talking about how good our team was. Eventually, curiosity won.

“Kaiden!”

I turned just in time to see Jay weaving through the crowd, nudging supporters aside with apologetic smiles until he reached me.

“Great seeing you here,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. His grip was surprisingly solid for someone who usually moved like a polite breeze.

“Here for my papers,” I replied, “but figured I’d catch the game.”

“Smart move. Come sit with us. The guys are already here.”

Jay led the way up to the tribune. Nathaniel, Leo, and Markus greeted me with raised hands, laughing and bickering as always. Markus scooted over, and Nathaniel claimed the spot beside me.

“Didn’t expect all of you here,” I admitted.

Nathaniel stared at me like I’d said something insane. “Gemma, Ashley, and Freya show up for our games every time. Why shouldn’t we do the same for them?”

Before I could answer, Leo leaned forward. “Shh. Kickoff.”

Eldermoor’s women strode onto the pitch. Their black-and-green kits looked understated beside Willowmere’s technicolor chaos.

Markus leaned in so close I felt his breath on my cheek—too close—and I shifted away. He pointed anyway.

“See the redhead? Gemma. Fast as hell. Dangerous on the break.” Then he gestured at a brunette sprinting across the field. “Ashley. Only been playing a couple years, but she’s a natural.”

No jealousy in his voice—just admiration.

But my eyes went straight to the captain.

The woman I’d met days ago.

Freya Haroldsson stood at midfield with a quiet authority you didn’t ignore. She wasn’t loud or showy. She didn’t need to be. The pitch bent around her presence.

“That’s Freya,” Markus said, following my line of sight. “Westbridge United tried to sign her last year. She turned them down. Watch her for five minutes and you’ll see why.”

The whistle blew.

The match ignited.

Freya moved with calm precision, every step measured and intentional. I leaned forward without realizing it, tracking her movements. She orchestrated the midfield like she had a map no one else could see.

When a Willowmere defender rushed her, she barely twitched—a subtle feint, a shift of weight—and slipped past like water. She surged forward, eyes already scanning.

“Gemma left! Ashley push in!” she shouted, her voice slicing through the noise.

The team shifted around her, adjusting in perfect rhythm.

Then it happened.

Freya accelerated into open space, dragging Willowmere’s midfield with her. The defense tilted. Panicked. She nutmegged a player so cleanly the entire crowd gasped. Without even glancing, she curled a perfect pass out wide.

Gemma sprinted into it.

One touch.

A blistering volley.

The net rippled.

The stadium erupted.

Even Willowmere fans made a sound somewhere between shock and dread.

I caught myself grinning—actually grinning—like a kid watching magic for the first time. Freya didn’t just play the game. She shaped it. Everyone else followed her rhythm.

By the final whistle, my heart was still racing.

Outside, the evening air buzzed with post-match energy. Supporters chatted, players stretched and posed for photos, and the world felt unexpectedly warm. I hung around with Nate, Leo, and Markus, letting the chaos wash over me.

Outside, the evening air buzzed with post-match energy. Supporters chatted, players stretched or posed for photos, and the world felt warm in a way I hadn’t expected. I hung around with Nate, Leo, and Markus, letting the chaos wash over me.

Eventually, I slipped away and stepped into the club building. The familiar scent of floor polish and old wood hit me hard. Memories—loud ones—rushed up fast. Voices I’d forgotten. Wins. Losses. The echo of teenage dreams.

I slowed near the bulletin board, caught by a new display: a collage of the women’s team. Headlines blared:

“Eldermoor Women Win Regional League.”
“Captain Freya Heralded as Tactical Prodigy.”
“Coach Reynolds Left Speechless.”

Their faces—sweaty, exhausted, triumphant—radiated something real. Pride. Fear. Hunger. The kind of fire you couldn't fake.

A sharp clatter snapped me out of it.

“Oh—shit.”

Freya crouched on the floor, gathering fallen pins, moving faster than she needed to, trying to get everything at once instead of taking it piece by piece. Her cheeks were still flushed from the match, hair sticking to the back of her neck. Without the jersey, she looked younger, less shielded—but the focus was still there, sharp and intact under the surface.

“Need a hand?” I asked, crouching beside her.

She nodded, already reaching for the next pin before I could pass it to her. Our fingers brushed once—unavoidable, nothing more—and she took it without breaking rhythm.

“Thanks,” she said. “I was updating the training schedules.”

Behind her, the board was mostly organised—practice times aligned, notes pinned cleanly—except for one crooked sheet that stood out immediately.

New Trainer Needed.

She noticed it too, straightening it with a quick, practised motion, pressing it flat like it had annoyed her longer than she’d admit.

I adjusted the corner she missed, lining it up with the rest. Our hands crossed again briefly, but this time I was already looking past it—at the board, at the structure she’d built.

“Looking for trainers?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “For both boys and girls. We lost one, so… we need a replacement.”

The word "lost" lingered in the air a second longer than it should have. She moved past it without explaining.

“I’m looking for someone to co-train,” she continued, more focused now. “Someone who actually cares about youth development. Not someone who wants to be a hero.”

I nodded. That narrowed it down.

“Do you train them yourself?”

“Twice a week. They’re eleven and twelve. Not the most talented group, but they have heart.”

She said it without hesitation, as that mattered more than anything else.

Before I could respond, she tapped one of the sheets on the board.

“Leo’s running a training camp soon. If you’re ever free… it’s a good way to get involved.”

No pause. No expectation. Just information.

Then she was gone—already halfway down the hall, attention shifting to whatever came next.

I watched her for a moment, not following.

Not soft. Not careless.

Structured.

Deliberate.

And from the way Nathaniel had reacted to her tonight—not subtle, not contained—she clearly wasn’t just “the captain” to him.

I filed that away.