Chapter 8
Noah
Our game isn’t until tonight, but preparation starts now, so I whip up a breakfast fit for kings—scrambled eggs, smashed avocado with feta, toast, and a stack of pancakes with a side of fresh berries.
By the time Jasper and Dane stumble in, yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes, the table is set like I’m running a professional café.
“Jesus, mate,” Jasper says, grinning. “Who are you and what have you done with our captain?”
I roll my eyes over my coffee mug.
Dane eyes me curiously. “What’s with the good mood? It’s freaking me out.”
I ignore him, but Jasper nudges him with his shoulder. “Someone must have had a real good date. I didn’t hear him come in last night, did you?”
Dane smirks, popping a blueberry into his mouth. “Nope. Must have been a late one.”
“Are you arseholes gonna sit down and eat, or am I donating your meals to the homeless?”
“Ah, there he is.” Jasper chuckles as he sits across from me and loads his plate. Dane takes his place next to him.
The kitchen is blissfully silent while the three of us stuff our faces, fuelling up for tonight’s game.
Until Dane leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, a grin tugging on his lips.
“You know, I didn’t think sweet little Hannah had it in her. Keeping our captain out until all hours of the night before a game, and leaving him so satisfied he’s humming show tunes and making us breakfast… Are things between you serious, or should I slip her my number in class?”
I scowl, shoving my empty plate towards him. “For that asinine comment, you can be on clean-up duty.”
His brow furrows as I get to my feet. “What the hell is asinine?”
Jasper bursts out laughing, and I shake my head as I leave the kitchen, heading upstairs to get some studying done before lunch.
Only I can’t concentrate.
Dane’s comments about Hannah have guilt weighing me down.
She doesn’t deserve to have them thinking she’s an easy lay, especially when nothing happened between us.
I shouldn’t have let them think things went that far, but I didn’t want them questioning where I really was. Fuck. This has all become a big mess.
Pulling out my phone, I search for her number and shoot her a text.
Noah: Hey, I had a nice time at dinner last night. Just a heads up, my housemates are total dicks, and they’ve got it in their heads that something more happened between us. If Dane makes any smartarse comments in class, I want you to know I didn’t say anything.
Feeling like a giant arsehole, I toss my phone onto my desk and crack open my marketing textbook. My head is full of numbers and graphs when I get a reply ten minutes later.
Hannah: Well, now I feel kind of cheated Tell me, was I good?
Relief floods through me, but my grin fades when her next text arrives.
Hannah: Maybe you need to take me on another date, and we can really give them something to talk about?
Christ. How the hell did I get myself into this mess?
I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen between my teeth, trying to figure out how to let her down gently.
The last thing I need is for her to spread rumours around school that I took her on one date and let my mates talk shit about her.
But I don’t want to lead her on when I’m not interested.
Fuck Dane and his big mouth.
Noah: I really did have a good time, but I’m not in the headspace for anything serious. I’d hate to lead you on. You’re a great girl. Any guy would be lucky to have you.
Except Dane, I think to myself as I press send.
I wait for a reply, but when nothing comes, I breathe out a heavy sigh. Either she’s totally cool with us being friends and she’s moved on, or she’s currently creating a Noah voodoo doll. Nothing I can do to change that now.
I return my focus to my books, opening my laptop and inputting the first dataset.
Marketing analytics and consumer insight aren’t exactly thrilling, but there’s something calming about reading numbers and searching for patterns and outliers.
I tweak a dataset, run another regression, and let the rhythm of it all pull me under.
Downstairs, Jasper and Dane are shouting at the television, no doubt watching a sports game. I block them out and get lost in rows of data and scatter plots until two-thirty, when the sharp, insistent trill of my alarm cuts through the quiet. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.
I save my work and pack away my books just as Jasper shouts that lunch is ready. I’ve been living with him since we both moved to Beckford eighteen months ago, and Dane moved in three months ago. We have our game day routine down to an art, no matter what time we play.
After scarfing down chicken and rice, I head to the games room to run through some stretches and use the foam roller to loosen up the knots in my calves and my lower back while Dane crashes out on the couch watching highlights from last week’s Championship League.
The familiar burn works through my muscles as I roll over my quads, slow and deliberate, the pressure toeing the line between pain and relief.
“Oh, shit!” Dane shouts, scrambling to sit up, staring open-mouthed at the television. “It’s Whitford.”
I draw my gaze to the screen, and sure enough, our former captain is there, showcasing his incredible footwork and speed.
It’s weird seeing a guy I played with tearing it up on the pitch in front of the world.
I love the game, and I’m good at it—when I’m not distracted—but I never had aspirations to go pro.
Luca was a good captain. He cared about his teammates, often giving up his time to help us improve our game. Guilt lands like a heavy punch to the gut. I’ve let him down. I’ve been too selfish and caught up in my own issues to lead the team.
That changes today.
Usually, I ride to the stadium, preferring the solitude to get my head in the game, but today, I get a lift with the guys. We talk strategy after having watched the recording of Macquarie’s last game at training this week.
As we pull into the car park, Dane points out their keeper is weak in the air, constantly getting caught out of position on corners and mistiming his jump.
Their defence plays a low block, so if our new striker, Blake Logan, can slip between their defensive and midfield lines, he’ll get a lot of shots on goal, and if he misses, we can hopefully force some corners.
He knows what he’s talking about. He’ll step up to be a good goalkeeper himself once Kincaid graduates at the end of this year.
My eyes dart to the man in question as I exit the car. He’s standing beside the stadium’s entrance, talking to two gorgeous girls. One of them—clearly a Banshee judging by the player jersey she’s wearing—laughs at something he says and places her hand on his arm.
Something stirs in my gut, but I push it down.
If he wants to flirt with a couple of jersey chasers, who am I to stop him?
My good mood from last night hasn’t dimmed, and I refuse to let him ruin it.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like a weight has lifted from my shoulders, that I’m taking small steps to be myself.
I follow Jasper and Dane through to the change rooms and find Coach Johnson to debrief with him before I get ready for the game.
“Hey, Coach,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the open door.
He looks up from his clipboard, his expression tight. My eyes swivel to his assistant coach, Coach Raynor, sitting on his couch. He nods in greeting, and I return the gesture as I cross the office and slide into the seat across from Coach Johnson.
“Noah.” My stomach sinks at the head coach’s clipped tone.
“Everything all right?” I ask lightly, trying not to assume the worst.
He sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’re four and oh.”
A stat I’m well aware of.
I nod. “We’ll get the win tonight, Coach. We’re ready for them.”
“I hope so. I really do.” He rubs a hand down his tired face and fixes his heavy gaze on me.
“Listen, I’m not going to sugar-coat things.
It didn’t escape Coach Rourke’s notice that there’s bad blood between you and Kincaid—” I open my mouth to dispute it, but his glare has me slamming it shut.
“Now you’re captain, we hoped you’d realise that petty bullshit doesn’t belong on the pitch.
Whatever happened between the two of you pales in comparison to working as a team to get the job done.
If you can’t bury your bullshit, I’ll have to make some changes around here. ”
“Yes, Coach,” I choke out. Message received, loud and clear. “I’m… working on it.”
“Good.”
We go through a few plays for the game, and I fill them in on what Dane noticed from the game tape. I’m only half focused on the conversation, though. I’m too distracted trying to figure out how I’ll block out what bothers me about my goalkeeper.
I still have no clue when they dismiss me to get my kit on, ready for warm-up. When I enter the change rooms, my eyes find him instantly, like a fucking vortex. He’s laughing and joking around with Ritter, and Everett Mathers is grinning at them, shaking his head at whatever they’re talking about.
Figuring now is as good a time as any to extend the olive branch, I walk over and clap a hand on Mathers’s shoulder. “What’s so funny?”
Our right wing leans down to tie his laces. “Just giving Ritter grief for that shanked cross in training.”
My smile falters as I remember my own shanked square ball against BHU that resulted in our first loss of the season.
Ritter shakes his head. “Shanked is a strong word.” He shoves Mathers playfully. “The wind caught it.”
“The wind,” Zac repeats, deadpan. “Sure, mate. Blame the wind.”
The others laugh, but my grin is forced. A strange feeling settles in my chest as I imagine what they’ve said about me this past month after all the fuck ups I tried to blame on Kincaid.
“Big game today,” I say, setting my bag down and reaching for my kit.
Zac glances over, one glove already on. “We’re aware.”
“So, maybe let’s focus on turning our season around instead of rehashing past mistakes.” My voice is light, but I don’t miss the scowl that crosses his features for a split second before he masks it.
“You’d know all about mistakes, hey, captain.” There’s a challenge in his eyes, and I groan inwardly, knowing I’ve already messed this shit up.
Ritter and Everett exchange a look before moving off to chat to Dane and Jasper. Shit. So much for trying to fix the situation. I rack my brain for a way to salvage this, but Kincaid gets in before me.
“Did you have fun on your date last night?”
His question catches me off guard—not the words themselves, but the tone. It’s not mocking or jealous, but something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
I blink, searching his face for a tell, but Zac’s expression is unreadable. The awareness I feel whenever he’s near kicks into overdrive, and I struggle for air.
“It was fine,” I finally say.
“Good.” There’s no inflection, no way of telling what he means by that one simple word. It drives me insane.
“Look,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “I know I’ve been an arsehole, but can we put all that behind us on the pitch? Work together for a common cause and all that shit?”
He arches a brow. “Why are you acting like I’ve got a problem with you? I go out there and do my job every damn time. Seems to me like this is more of a you problem than a me problem. Maybe you should save your speech for yourself.”
Before I can unpack that, he turns away, tugging his second glove on, effectively ending the conversation.
I sigh as I sit down to pull on my boots. At least I tried.
I can’t force the guy to forgive me, not with words at least.
As the team heads out onto the pitch, I promise myself I’ll show him how I can be a professional and leave all the off-field drama out of the game. It’s not like we have to be best mates or anything. All I want is to find a way to work together in shutting down the last line of defence.