Chapter 20
Kieren
The sky over Indiana was a solid block of gray. Rain threatened but never fell, just hovered there, thick and heavy, like the tension building in my chest.
We were twenty minutes into the match, and I could already feel it slipping. The energy was off—on the field, on the bench, in the stands. It was like no one had shown up with fire in their gut. No one but me.
Troy botched another pass. Lazy. Weak. Straight to the other team’s midfielder like he wanted to turn over possession.
I clapped my hands once, sharp. “Let’s go!”
No response. No eye contact. Just a shrug and a jog back into position like nothing happened.
This wasn’t how we won games. This wasn’t how we survived seasons.
You don’t coast when my career’s on the line.
Every pass I made, every interception, every sprint—I was trying to ignite something. But I couldn’t carry the whole damn team. Not alone. Not when half of them played like it was a casual scrimmage and not a nationally televised game.
And I hated that.
Second half, it got worse. The weather turned—wind picked up, ball control got sloppy.
And Troy gave up entirely. Didn’t chase down a single break. Let a midfielder slide past him and didn’t even turn.
The second goal hit the back of our net, and I saw red.
The final whistle blew, and the scoreline glared at us from the board: 2–0. Ugly. Deserved.
After shaking hands, we trudged off the field to a storm of boos and reporters already circling like vultures.
I tugged my jersey over my face, trying to block it all out. The noise. The failure. The part of me that wanted to grab Troy by the collar and make him care.
I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t cool the burn crawling under my skin.
We got to the tunnel, and he laughed—laughed—at something on his phone like we hadn’t just embarrassed ourselves on the pitch.
I stopped walking.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, voice low, coiled tight.
He glanced at me. “Relax, man. It’s one game.”
One game?
One game?
I nearly lost it.
But I didn’t. I turned and kept walking, fists clenched, jaw tight enough to ache.
Because I couldn’t afford to throw a punch—not when the cameras were watching. Not when every move I made was dissected.
But in my head, it echoed:
You don’t get to coast while I bleed for this team.
You don’t laugh when we lose.
You don’t fuck around when my future is on the line.
The locker room was cold, silent except for the sound of cleats hitting tile and zippers being yanked open. Everyone was pissed. Tired. Wrecked.
And there he was—grinning at something on his phone like this was a joke.
I blinked once. Twice. My jaw clenched so tight I could feel it in my temples.
“You think this is funny?” I asked again, voice sharp enough to slice through the tension.
Troy looked up, surprised, like he hadn’t even realized someone might have a problem.
“Bro,” he said with a lazy smirk, “chill—”
“Chill?” My voice cracked. “You handed them both fucking goals.”
He shrugged. “It happens. Whole team was off today, not just me.”
The words didn’t even finish leaving his mouth before I was in his space. I shoved him, hard, straight into the lockers.
A loud clang echoed. Heads whipped around. Bags dropped.
“Don’t you dare hide behind the team,” I growled. “You coasted. You quit. You lost us that game.”
“Jesus, Kieren, get over yourself—”
Another shove. This time players rushed between us—Griffin grabbed my arm, Caleb pushed Troy back.
“Enough!” someone barked.
But I was still locked in, chest heaving, fists clenched.
I didn’t even notice the cameras until Caleb swore under his breath. One of the interns was still filming, probably capturing locker room “reaction shots” for the media team. The audio might be trash with all the shouting, but it didn’t take a genius to read the scene:
Me—furious, teeth bared, a heartbeat from throwing a punch.
Troy—shocked, arms raised, playing innocent.
Coach stormed in seconds later.
“What the hell is going on?” he snapped.
“He’s lucky I didn’t knock him out,” I said through my teeth.
“You’re supposed to lead, not start fights,” Reid fired back. “That what you call leadership now?”
I stepped forward. “Then bench the ones who don’t show up. Bench him.”
“You’re done.” Coach pointed at the door. “Out. Now.”
Fine by me.
I shoved past the cluster of teammates and stormed into the hallway, every step vibrating with rage.
Troy’s laugh still echoed in my skull like a trigger.
I could feel the eyes behind me—some shocked, some disappointed, some just waiting to see what the fallout would be.
I didn’t care.
I wasn’t going to sit by and smile while guys who didn’t give a shit dragged us through the mud. My name was on that jersey. My future tied to every damn stat. I wasn’t going to let a lazy midfielder coast through the season while I bled for this team.
I didn’t stop walking until I hit the sidewalk outside the stadium. The air was cold, slicing across my jaw like a slap, but I welcomed it.
I didn’t wait for the team bus.
I called a rideshare and took off alone, heading straight to the hotel without a word to anyone.
I needed out.
Out of the stadium.
Out of that locker room.
Out of my own skin, if I could’ve managed it.
Because if I stayed, I was going to do something I’d regret.
And right now?
I already regretted not hitting him harder.
The hotel room was dim, curtains drawn. The only light came from the blinking red on the smoke detector and the soft, unwelcome glow of my phone screen lighting up every few seconds on the nightstand.
I didn’t turn on the TV.
The loss was already playing on repeat behind my eyes—Troy’s lazy backpass, the snap of the net as the second goal slammed in, the camera flash when I shoved him into the lockers. My pulse still hadn’t settled, jaw sore from clenching, shoulders tight from holding in everything I didn’t say.
My phone buzzed again. Group chat.
Beckett: Media already picked it up.
Adam: PR’s gonna talk to coach. Just chill.
Troy, of course, hadn’t said a word. Not even to own up.
Notifications piled in: press alerts, Twitter tags, screenshots of the locker room scuffle mid-shove. They’d blurred out our faces, but it was obvious. I didn’t need audio to know how pissed I looked.
What if this tanks everything?
What if this—this one game, this one bad night—derails the entire thing?
The draft scouts. The brand meetings. The “future of American soccer” interviews.
All of it, slipping through my fingers like sand because some idiot couldn’t hold his line and I couldn’t keep my temper.
I poured a drink from the minibar—top shelf scotch, overpriced, and probably meant for victory toasts.
I didn’t touch it.
Just stared at the glass, condensation slipping down the sides like it was mocking me.
I sank into the armchair, elbows on knees, fingers interlocked behind my neck. My head throbbed. My chest ached. And no amount of pacing or breathing or punching a pillow made it go away.
I had worked too hard. Lost too much. Sacrificed every damn thing that didn’t fit between practices and painkillers and late-night drills.
And for what?
A “chill bro” and a camera flash.
My phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t the group chat.
Soft knock at the door.
I didn’t move at first.
Didn’t want company. Didn’t want a lecture. Didn’t want to pretend like I was fine.
Another knock. Then a voice—quiet but familiar.
“It’s me.”
Daphne.
I exhaled slowly, some part of me unraveling just from that voice alone. My fingers twitched, halfway to running through my hair.
For a second, I debated ignoring it. Letting her assume I was asleep or not in the mood or whatever excuse would keep her away from this mess I’d made.
But I couldn’t.
Not when she was the only thing that still felt solid.
I got up, crossed the room, and opened the door.
She stood there, hoodie on, hands in the pocket, eyes searching mine like she already knew what kind of night I’d had.
“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” she said softly.
I stepped aside. “Didn’t think you’d come.”
She walked in like she belonged there.
Like maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t ruined everything yet.
Leggings. Oversized hoodie. Bare face. No makeup, no filters, no armor. Just Daphne. Hair up in a messy twist, like she’d thrown it together before slipping down the hall. Her eyes locked on mine, wide and searching, like she was trying to figure out which version of me she’d get tonight.
The storm or the wreckage.
For a second, neither of us spoke. Just stood there in that charged silence like the hallway air had thickened. I stepped aside. She didn’t wait for permission. She walked in like she always did—quiet, confident, necessary.
She turned back to me once the door clicked shut.
“I saw the footage,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Are you okay?”
I let out a breath that felt like gravel scraping my throat. “Do I look okay?”
She didn’t flinch. Just gave me that look. The one that didn’t pity or panic. Just… saw me.
She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, hands tucked between her knees. I didn’t move. I leaned back against the dresser, arms crossed, trying to hold the pressure in—but it had nowhere to go.
“Troy’s a fucking joke. Lazy passes, zero hustle, and then he has the nerve to laugh about it like it’s no big deal. This isn’t high school rec league. This is everything. My future. My name. My career.”
She didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, eyes on mine, letting me unravel.
“I’m tired of carrying this team,” I snapped, pacing now.
“Tired of giving 110% while other guys are just coasting. Of coaches saying, ‘Be a leader, Kieren,’ but not doing shit when half the squad checks out mid-game.” My voice cracked, sharp at the edges.
My hands were fists. “I’m sick of pretending I’m not furious every damn day. ”
I stopped.
She tilted her head slightly. “You done?”
I barked a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”