Chapter Thirty
Zayden
Weeks later…
Spring arrives before I know it, the air smells cleansed and new—kinda like a rebirth while grief lingers underneath.
The field glistens under the morning light, dew clinging to the grass like glass shards.
It’s odd looking to my left and seeing his spot empty except for his jersey.
The announcer's voice cracks through the speakers, cheerful and wrong for the kind of announcement he’s about to make.
A lump quickly forms in my throat as we bow our heads.
Paying our respects to the three players we lost that night, all thanks to a fire.
What should have been a night of fun turned into an infernal nightmare.
That’s the official news, at least. We pay our respects.
My gaze lifts, feeling the heat of Safra’s stare.
He offers me a timid smile, and I give him, our new team captain, the cold shoulder.
The piercing blast of the whistle cuts through the silence like a blade.
For a second, no one moves, and I find myself staring at the black jersey.
For him…
And just like that, the ball rolls forward, making me run after it, because that’s the only thing left to do.
The field hums beneath my cleats, the crowd a blur of color and noise.
It’s a home game, and everything feels strange.
I’m off sync playing offside… with no Nico to flank.
The game unfolds like muscle memory, fast, mechanical, and hollow.
The ball cuts through the field, slick from the dew, and every pass feels heavier than it should.
Even clumsier, the team isn’t working together, and, at this rate, I’m sure we’re gonna lose.
Safra shouts for formation, his voice sharp and clean, but it doesn't reach me. I’m running on instinct, chasing ghosts instead of plays.
With all the new faces, it’s hard to find a good rhythm, but somehow we score. The crowd roars when the ball hits the net, but all the noise around me becomes distant and muffled, like I’m underwater and I’m not sure if I want to come back up for air.
By halftime, sweat burns my eyes, stinging as I wipe it away with the back of my wrist. The air tastes like metal and grass with each inhale.
“Switch,” Safra shouts, ordering me to move towards the left wing. I pivot.
Sprinting down the sideline, the ball arcs towards me, spinning fast. I trap it with my chest, a sharp sting biting into my body, but I take it before letting the ball drop and push it forward.
A defender from the opposite team closes in.
I feint right, then cut left, feeling the turf tear beneath my cleats.
The onlookers cheer when I cross, the ball curving through the air when I kick.
The height and spin are absolute perfection.
One of the guys meets it mid- stride, launching himself into the air, head snapping forward and connecting with the ball with a dull thud—the net rippling when we score again.
Maybe we aren’t going to lose.
We lost the game…
In reality, we got our asses handed to us. After some food, a long shower, and a much-needed nap, I woke up to realize that I needed to release the weight strangling me from the inside out.
Why am I here?
It’s been a while since I came here on a Wednesday night seeking release.
The club hums like a heartbeat as low, steady music pulses through the floor.
I push through the sea of bodies, the scent of sweat and perfume thick enough to taste.
Bodies move in rhythm, nothing but heat and friction.
I’m not here for the music or the alcohol. Just here to forget.
Despite the mask that clings to half of my face, the bartender nods, recognizing me, and begins to pour my usual.
A basic shot of tequila—I’m a simple man.
I down it in one gulp, the burn slides down my throat, spreading through my chest like flames.
I can already feel the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, making some of the tension melt away, but it’s not enough.
I scan the room for the masked stranger that I know is Thiago, but it’s easier to pretend.
A scoff escapes my lips. How little must he think of me?
For him to even consider that I wouldn’t recognize the feel of his cock or the sound of his ragged breath as he reaches his climax.
That’s when I spot him, already outside on the balcony, a cigarette between his fingers with smoke curling around his handsome but very punchable face.
The half mask catches the moonlight, white plastic and golden edges—and for a second, I just stare.
He looks like the sun, impossible to touch but so beautiful that you decide to burn anyway.
Hazel orbs find mine through the glass as he exhales a plume of smoke, gaze and body unmoving.
I push forward.
The door that leads outside slams behind me as I step out, the night air colder than I expected.
Safra inhales, slow and deliberate, watching me like he’s been waiting.
And given the unsolicited advice from Fabiola—I’m sure he has.
I think I’m going to hit him. Every muscle in my body says I should.
Instead, my hand finds his throat. The asshole doesn’t even flinch.
“I should hate you,” I sneer, voice low and shaking with emotions I try to keep at bay but fail miserably at. “I’m supposed to hate you after what you did.”
Safra’s lips curve, not in a cruel manner but knowing. “And yet, here you are.”
I don’t know who moves first… Maybe it’s both of us, but the kiss lands hard.
Anger, grief, and need collide into something powerful.
Something worth jumping off the ledge for, even if you’re afraid of falling.
His tongue glides against mine, soft yet demanding.
My groan devours his hungry mouth. The world finally feels like it’s not burning, or maybe I’ve just accepted the flames to be beside the asshole who risked it all.
I’m not sure if this love…
All I know is that it feels right.
The game is far from over. This is the red card, the warning before the endgame.
Safra pulls back, allowing us space to breathe, chuckling against my lips just as our phones buzz loudly in unison. Thiago fishes his hand into his pocket and retrieves his phone. Both of us stare at the illuminated screen.