Eldermoor SC was buzzing by the time I arrived. Willowmere FC fans were everywhere, wrapped in those ridiculous white-and-blue scarves. Their colors 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.

Eventually, I slipped away into the club building. The familiar scent of floor polish and old wood hit me instantly. Memories rushed in—loud, messy, teenage dreams echoing through hallways I thought I’d forgotten.

Near the bulletin board, a new display stopped me: a collage of the women’s team. Headlines shouted:

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

Sweaty, exhausted, triumphant faces stared back—radiating pride. Fear. Hunger. Fire.

A sharp clatter jolted me.

“Oh—shit.”

Freya crouched on the floor, gathering fallen pins. Her cheeks were still flushed from the match, hair sticking to her neck. Out of her jersey, she looked younger—softer—but still unmistakably commanding. Something vulnerable flickered in the way she tried to scoop everything up at once.

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

She nodded, and our fingers brushed as I handed her a pin. Light. Casual. But something lingered.

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

Behind her, practice times were pinned neatly—except for one crooked sheet labeled:

“New Trainer Needed.”

She straightened it, smoothing the edges.

I helped line up the corner. Our hands met again—accidental, brief. Close enough for me to really see her eyes for the first time. Blue, shot through with pale grey. Sharp. Intelligent. A little tired.

“Looking for trainers?” I asked.

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

The word lost carried something heavier beneath it.

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

I blinked. Fair enough.

“You train them yourself?”

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

She smiled—small, barely there—and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Before she walked off, she tapped one of the sheets.

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

And then she was gone—already halfway down the hall, mind on her next task.

I watched her disappear. Not with attraction. Not with judgment.

Just a curiosity I hadn’t expected.

Freya was nothing like I’d assumed.

And from the way Nathaniel had cheered for her—not quiet, not subtle—she clearly wasn’t just “the captain” to him.

I filed that away without thinking too much about it.