Chapter 4
Zac
Noah Bentley is a fucking arsehole. Three weeks since our first game, he’s still treating me like I’m the dirt beneath his shoe and throwing me under the bus for his screw-ups in the back line.
In our latest game, he went in for a late slide tackle in the box and gave away a penalty. Even some of the best keepers in the English Premier League can’t do anything against that. Coach Johnson was pissed, and directed his dire at our captain. That only made Noah shittier with me.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that he’s being weird around me in the change rooms, either. It’s no secret that I’m bi, but the team knows me well enough to trust I’m not checking them out in the showers. At least, everyone but Noah.
“What’s his problem?” I mutter under my breath when I exit the showers with Ritter, our towels wrapped around our waists.
Noah shoots us a disgusted look as he pulls on his shirt. He grabs his bag and storms out, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
Ritter shrugs. “Ignore him.”
“Easy to say when he’s not riding your back and blaming you for every missed save.”
My teammate grimaces. “I take my hat off to you, man. Being a keeper is a thankless job.”
I huff a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.”
He claps me on the back. “Whatever his problem is, he’ll get over it. You’re good, man. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got quick hands, and you read the play just as well as Peters ever did. Half the time you’re off your line before the striker even realises he’s got a shot.”
My lips tug into a smirk as I slip my shirt over my head. “I wasn’t asking you to blow smoke up my arse.”
He chuckles. “Just telling it like I see it.”
“Maybe he’s secretly in love with you,” Everett teases from the other side of Ritter.
I scoff. “Fuck off, Mathers. Our captain’s straighter than a fucking steel beam. Even if he was in love with me, I don’t go for dickheads.”
My teammates laugh, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m not ashamed of who I am. Never have been. But this kind of masculine toxicity among athletes seeps into everything—the change room banter, the half-joking slurs, the way everyone pretends it’s harmless.
I finish getting dressed and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Catch ya later, boys.”
The late afternoon sun bleeds golden light over campus as I head towards the library.
The semester has only just started, but I already know it’s going to kick my arse.
I’m in my fourth and final year of my psychology degree, completing honours, which means advanced coursework, placements, lots of research, and a major thesis project.
Add in our gruelling training regime and I’ll be lucky if I have time to sleep and eat for the next nine months.
I push through the doors to the library and make my way to my usual table, only to groan when I spot none other than my grumpy arsehole of a captain sitting with a group of students three tables over. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I contemplate leaving, but fuck him. He doesn’t own the library.
I choose the seat that angles my back to him and place my Beats over my ears before pulling out my laptop.
The back of my neck prickles, but I ignore the feeling and open my research project, staring at the title: Masculinity, Emotional Expression, and Help-Seeking Behaviour in Male University Athletes.
Fitting. I’m studying the same shit I’m living through with my captain.
The dude is the epitome of toxic masculinity with the way he avoids me like I’m contagious or puts me down and berates me on the pitch.
He’s clever about it, too, muttering comments when no one else will hear him.
The glares and filthy looks are harder to hide, but everyone just brushes them off as normal tension between teammates.
Boys will be boys. No one wants to believe the captain’s a prick, so they laugh it off or change the subject.
Meanwhile, I’m wondering how many more sideways looks I can take before I finally snap—or worse, believe I deserve them.
Realising I’ve spent too much time thinking about the arsehole behind me than actually working on my research paper, I press play on one of my daily mixes and scroll through my notes—quotes about conformity, emotional suppression, and toxic team culture.
My thoughts wander again. Most of the guys on the team don’t care that I’m bi.
The guys from Beckford have known me since high school, and those who moved here for university have been pretty accepting of my sexuality.
There have been a few jokes here and there, but nothing cruel.
Our previous coach never tolerated that kind of behaviour.
Coach Rourke ran a tight ship, expected us to show up on time, play hard, and be decent human beings while we’re at it.
He demanded loyalty, and the team was successful because of it.
Coach Johnson’s no different. If anything, he’s even tougher on the attitude stuff, always preaching respect and teamwork.
That’s why I can’t figure out why the heck they handed the armband to Noah fucking Bentley this season.
His leadership skills suck, his attitude sucks, and his basic humanity… you guessed it, it sucks.
My phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts, and I look down at the screen.
Milly: Yo, doofus. Mum wants to know if you’re going to be home for dinner?
I check the time and see it’s just past seven. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and barely made a dent in my research paper. Slamming my laptop shut and removing my Beats, I pack my bag and get to my feet, stretching.
As I walk towards the exit of the library, I tap out a reply to my sister.
Zac: Be home in fifteen. Need me to get anything on my way?
Milly: Choc chip ice cream
Zac: I meant for dinner.
Milly: I know, but you’ll get it for me because you’re the best big brother ever
I laugh out loud, knowing she has me there. My eyes are still locked on my phone when I crash into a hard body.
“Oh, shit. Sor—”
My apology cuts off when I look up into Noah’s scowling face.
“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps.
I move out of his way without a word.
He stares at me for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then he shakes his head and pushes through the door.
I blow out a frustrated breath and run a hand through my hair. It’s going to be a long season if he doesn’t pull the stick out of his arse.
A light rain falls as I follow Noah towards the car park at a distance, keeping my head down—I’m not in the mood for another run-in.
Luck isn’t on my side, though. His bike occupies the space next to my Torana. Of course it fucking does.
Ignoring him, I unlock my car and climb inside.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him climb onto his bike and pull his helmet on.
I hate the way my stomach clenches and my pulse spikes at the sight; my body betrays me like it doesn’t remember all the crap he’s said to me.
There’s no way I’m letting this stupid attraction take hold.
No matter how good he looks in that leather jacket—everything about him is a walking red flag.
I drag a hand over my face, cursing under my breath. Of all the people to react to, it had to be him.
I stick my keys in the ignition, but before I start the engine, I realise I haven’t heard the telltale growl of the motorbike. Breathing out a heavy sigh, I glance out my window to see a frustrated Noah slamming his hand against his handlebars.
Fuck.
Start the car, idiot. Drive away. Don’t do anything stupid.
My hand moves to the window handle.
Don’t do it.
I wind my window down.
Keep your damn mouth shut.
“Need a ride?”
Idiot.
Noah freezes, his shoulders going rigid. Instead of starting my car and driving off like I should, I wait, intrigued to see what he’ll do.
Stubborn as always, he presses the starter again. The bike’s engine gives a half-hearted click, then silence. He tries again, his jaw tight. Nothing. The lights don’t even flicker.
He reaches up and pulls off his helmet, resignation in his eyes.
There’s a handful of cars left in the car park, but no one else is around.
His place is a twenty-minute drive from campus, which would take him at least an hour and a half to walk.
He could call his housemates, but he’d still have to wait for them to come and get him.
I watch all the options roll through his mind and try to hide my smirk when he finally forces his gaze to meet mine.
“Thanks,” he grits out through clenched teeth, climbing off his bike.
I shrug like it’s no big deal as he stalks around the front of the car and opens the passenger side, all the while ignoring the way my stomach flutters like an idiot with a crush. It’s just a lift home for an arsehole who doesn’t deserve it.
Noah sits rigid in his seat, clutching his bag on his lap as if I might jump across the console and attack him or something.
I shake my head as I wind up the window.
“What’s the problem with it?” I ask as my engine rumbles to life like a loud fuck you to his bike.
“Starter motor,” he mutters like it pains him to make conversation with me. “It’s been struggling for a while, but I’m just waiting for the part to arrive.”
“Damn. How long?”
He flicks a glance at me before returning his gaze to the window as I turn out of the university car park. “Another couple of days.”
“Need me to organise my uncle’s tow truck?”
He shakes his head. “I go to Tully’s garage.”
Of course he does. God forbid he take his precious bike to Kincaid Auto Repairs.
Tension fills the space, and he shifts in his seat. “Didn’t pick you for a car enthusiast,” he says, glancing around.
My lips tug up involuntarily as I think of my pop. “Yeah, built her from the chassis up.”
“Seriously?” He almost sounds impressed, though he’d never admit it.
“Yeah, me and my pop. Took us two years.
Noah glances at me with a raised brow. “Wouldn’t have picked that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say with a shrug.
He lets out a huff and returns his attention to the window. There goes that small glimpse of a human being.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance down at the screen. Milly. I roll my eyes. She’s probably wondering where her ice cream is. My sister has the biggest sweet tooth.
“I’m not a homophobe.” Noah breaks the silence, and when I look over at him, he’s staring down at my phone with a strange look on his face.
I scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His fists clench around his bag. “I’m not.”
“So, it’s just a coincidence you’re only an arsehole to the one bisexual player on the team?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again.
“That’s what I thought.”
We ride the rest of the way to his place in silence. When I pull up out the front, he doesn’t make a move to get out of my car.
“I’m not the bad guy here,” I snap, watching the wipers swipe back and forth on the windshield.
“You’re the one who keeps blaming me for your fuck ups on the pitch, and I’m getting sick and tired of it.
I earned my spot on the team, just like you did.
Why the hell they named you captain has got me beat. ”
Noah pushes open the car door and climbs out. “Thanks for the ride.”
He shuts the door, and I take off down the street, anger coursing through my veins. I don’t know why I even bother with him.