The jog over was a soothing way to fit in extra exercise, even if I barely broke a sweat. Club members hailed me across the field, waving or calling my name. The sense of belonging hit instantly—warm, familiar, grounding. Eldermoor felt alive in that way only small communities could manage.

After greeting everyone, I walked past the busy locker room toward the back of the clubhouse. The noise faded as I slipped into the quiet storage unit where all the training equipment waited. I knelt down, unlocked it with the team keychain every coach and trainer carried, flipped on the humming neon lights, and rolled out the plastic container marked with my team’s name.

Reaching up to the shelves, I pulled down a few obstacle props and balanced them in my arms as I headed back toward the field, setting things up before the others arrived.

Three other teams were already practising. I exchanged signals with the other trainers—and then I noticed Kaiden.

He stood surrounded by a group of fourteen-year-old boys, all barely half his height. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but their eyes gleamed as he demonstrated ball control skills. They watched him as if he were performing magic.

“Did you come early to impress the kids or the other trainers?” I teased when Kaiden jogged over, the lingering admiration of the staff following him.

“Maybe a little of both,” he said, brushing his hair from his eyes.

That’s when I noticed it—a faint scar at his temple. One I hadn’t seen before.

“Were you impressed?” he asked.

“I’m kind of disappointed you thought I would be.”

Once our greetings were done, we shifted easily into setup mode. Together, we laid out an obstacle course focused on conditioning and agility—round hoops for pinpoint shooting, triangle cones for coordination and quick passing without losing momentum.

When we called the kids over, Kaiden and I guided them into a loose circle, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing us.

“Some of you might already know him,” I began—only to be interrupted.

“Kaiden Matthews. Twenty-two years old. One-point-five goals per game. Fifteen assists. Four yellow cards. Direct shot—one hundred kilometers per hour. Fact!”

Clayton rattled it off like a trading card stat sheet.

A bright smile spread across Kaiden’s face, his eyes lighting up instantly.

I shook my head. “Don’t get cocky. Clayton’s Nathaniel’s biggest fan.”

“Alright,” I clapped my hands together. “Let’s see who stayed sharp over the summer—and who didn’t.”

The kids burst into laughter, pointing fingers at each other, already exposing their suspects.

As practice continued, I caught myself watching Kaiden more than the drills.

There was something about the way he commanded their attention—not with volume or authority, but with quiet confidence. The boys listened because they wanted to. They trusted him instinctively.

“Keep your heads up! Eyes on the ball!” Kaiden called, crouching low to demonstrate footwork.
“You’re not just running—you’re thinking. Anticipate. React. Control.”

When one boy stumbled, Kaiden was there instantly, clapping his hands.

“That’s it! Don’t be afraid to mess up. Every mistake gets you closer to getting it right.”

I smiled. Effortless. Natural.

For the last fifteen minutes, we split them into two teams—Blue for Kaiden, Red for me.

What started playful quickly turned competitive.

Kaiden’s team scored.

“Nope,” I shot back. “Offside. Doesn’t count.”

He grinned. “You’re just jealous I’m better at bending the rules.”

I crossed my arms. “Bending? You shattered them.”

He stepped closer, eyes twinkling. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Freya? I play to win.”

I laughed. “Someone’s getting cocky.”

Nearby, the kids giggled, eyes darting between us, clearly enjoying the banter as much as the game.

After the final whistle, we gathered them for a quick rundown. As their energy settled, I outlined what we’d focus on leading up to next Wednesday’s match.

When they finally headed off—bags slung over shoulders, faces tired but happy—Clayton waved one last time before joining his twin.

Another session done.

Kaiden and I walked the field together, collecting cones and ball bags. He spoke animatedly about future training ideas, gesturing with both hands, the equipment in his grasp. His enthusiasm was contagious—and it struck me then how sharp his soccer IQ really was.

I must have stared too long.

“Nathaniel,” he says, like he’s placing the name first.

Head tilting. 

“What is he to you?”

I shrugged. In Eldermoor, rumours travelled faster than the wind.

“No… yes… no—I mean—” I faltered.

The question tightened something in my chest. Last night, Nathaniel and I had circled the same subject, leaving him stranded in my uncertainty. Why couldn’t I answer this simply?

Dropping my gaze, I pressed my fingers into my thighs until my knuckles whitened.

“It’s complicated,” I muttered.

Kaiden’s arms fell to his sides.  His jaw tightens, just briefly. Not at me, at the answer.

I wondered if he was judging me.

Then he exhaled.

“Complicated, huh.” He nods once, like that confirms something. “Makes sense.”

Then turned away, bending down to collect the scattered balls. His actions left me even more confused. Why did it feel like he wasn’t asking about me at all, but still somehow knew the answer mattered?