Chapter Eighteen Aurora / Joshua
Chapter Eighteen
Aurora / Joshua
Aurora
The stadium was too loud. Made sense; it was the first football match of the season. A home game, too. I didn’t want to come, not really, but Aly really wanted me to come, and I couldn’t turn her down. Maybe I could get some work done while watching.
Miles came too; he brought Matthew along with him, and we were bang on in the middle of the bleachers.
I could barely hear each whisper from Miles, who was kindly whispering, explaining the game to me since I understood little, nothing at all, actually.
I had my notebook open. Pen in hand. That was supposed to be my anchor.
Observe the captain on game day. Note his communication, his presence, his leadership. That was all I needed to do. Simple.
But then Number 8 moved. Joshua Lockhart.
The world narrowed to the line of his shoulders, the cut of his stride, the sheer force with which he commanded the field.
He was ruthless. Fast. Brutal. Every time he went for the ball, the air seemed to shift around him.
I told myself to write. To keep up. To be a good student. But sometimes my pen hovered, unmoving, because my eyes were still on him. Because I’d forgotten to breathe while watching the ball leave his foot and fly into the net.
“Write this—” Miles’ voice was low in my ear, dragging me back. His shoulder brushed mine as he leaned closer, pointing toward the pitch. “He just forced a turnover. That’s a transition moment. Put that.”
I scribbled; my handwriting jagged. Miles added another word softly, carefully. “Aggression.”
My pen obeyed.
But my eyes… my eyes kept flicking back to him. To Number 8, sprinting across the field, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched.
The way he didn’t even slow down after scoring, like he couldn’t afford to. Like something was chasing him.
I knew better than to stare. I knew better than to let my notes fall behind. And still, I caught myself watching. Quietly. Secretly.
Like if I just watched long enough, I’d understand why Joshua Lockhart looked like he was burning alive out there.
Soon enough, the last whistle blew just as the ball slammed into the back of the net.
Goal.
The stands erupted, the whole stadium rising to its feet, voices blending into one deafening roar. Teammates swarmed him, slapping his back, throwing their arms around him.
Eight. The winner, proving to everyone why he’s the captain.
I pressed my pen down against the page and wrote it: Final goal. Leadership maintained to the last second. My letters shook from the vibration of the crowd.
Automatically, I lifted my hands and clapped. Softly. Barely above a whisper of sound in the storm of noise around me.
And then he looked up.
Straight at me.
Not at the crowd. Not at his teammates. Not even at the scoreboard flashing his name.
Me.
Like he sensed that I was here. I don’t come to games, none. I never understood sports that well, so I figured it was a waste of time. And seeing the way his expression shifted into something else, something I couldn’t quite name, he probably didn’t expect me here either.
My palms faltered mid-clap, fingers curling in on themselves as if caught. My breath snagged. The sound of the crowd blurred into a dull hum.
I dropped my gaze, pen trembling in my hand, as though if I just kept writing, I could pretend none of it happened. Pretend that I hadn’t just been caught staring.
I told myself to keep my eyes down, focusing on the notes, to write more, to disappear into the safety of paper. But some traitorous part of me looked up again just a bit later.
And he was still staring.
My whole body felt caught in the weight of that gaze, like I’d stepped into the centre of something I didn’t understand. But I couldn’t look away either; I was locked onto him without even realising.
And then—
A hand slid into mine. Aly.
“C’mon, Campbell,” she said, voice pitched low against the roar. She tugged gently, steady but firm. “Too crowded. Let’s get out before it gets too overwhelming.”
I blinked, breath catching, as she pulled me up from my seat. The moment broke, but not entirely. Because when I wavered on my feet, I felt another anchor.
Miles.
He stepped in close, one arm circling lightly around my waist, his warmth bracing me as the bleachers shifted with the restless crowd. His mouth was by my ear, steady, calm. “Careful. Don’t fall. I’ve got you.”
My throat tightened, words stuck where they always did. I managed only a small nod.
Matthew was behind us, a silent shadow, keeping the press of students from jostling too close as Aly led the way down the steps.
I shouldn’t have. I told myself not to, not again. But halfway down the steps, I glanced back over my shoulder. He was nodding along to his teammates’ cheering for him and surrounding him. Then again, his gaze slammed into me.
And before I could think better of it, before he turned away, my hand lifted just slightly. Fingers curled, thumb pointing up. Small. Barely there.
But it was all I had to give.
A silent acknowledgement. I saw you, and you did good.
—
Joshua
The cheer from the stadium followed me off the pitch. Teammates clapping me on the back and students chanting my name.
None of it mattered.
Not when all I could see was her.
Aurora Campbell, halfway down the bleachers, tugged along by Aly, shielded by Matthew, steadied by that fucker who can’t seem to acknowledge what personal space meant. Miles. She shouldn’t have looked back. She never looks back at me.
But she did.
And then, like it was nothing, like it was the smallest, quietest thing in the world, she lifted her hand.
A thumbs up.
Not for the crowd. Not for the other players. For me. Personally, just for me. And fuck, it felt good.
By the time I made it into the changing room, my pulse was still pounding like I was mid-match. I sat on the bench, jersey damp, cleats still tied, staring at the wall.
She came…
How did I not see her when I walked out? She clearly stood out, yet my eyes didn’t catch her.
It would’ve been nice to get a pre-game motivation, but I guess I got another prize at the end instead. Still a win.
I don’t know how long I sat there replaying it. The slam of the ball into the net. Her soft clap. That impossible look. The thumbs up. Over and over, like a film I couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t until the door banged shut that I blinked back to the room.
Empty.
The laughter, the slamming lockers, the shuffle of footsteps. Gone. I glanced down at myself. Jersey still stuck to my skin. Boots laced tight. Not even a sock pulled off.
I hadn’t moved. Hadn’t changed. Hadn’t done a damn thing. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Aurora Campbell.
I finally dragged the jersey off, swapped it for a black tee, and shoved my stuff into my duffel. The room was quiet now, just the hum of the air vents and the dull ache in my muscles. I pushed the locker door shut, grabbed my phone off the bench, and headed for the exit.
Outside, the air was sharp, and I quickly grabbed my phone to check the weather to make sure it wasn’t going to rain, but before I could, my eyes went to the text notification at the bottom. The team’s group chat.
Hayden: Hey, Cap. Still hosting?
Right. The after-match thing. I’d agreed earlier in the week when the guys asked if I’d throw something for the team, in case she came.
My thumb hovered over the screen before I typed back:
Me: Yeah. Seven.
A reply pinged almost instantly.
Ollie: Yes! Good job today, Cap. See you at yours.
I stared at the message until the phone dimmed. Then I unlocked the car, dropped my bag in the passenger seat, and sat there for a second, fingers tight on the steering wheel, completely forgetting about checking the weather.
The team would tear my place apart in a few hours. Music, bottles, noise. The kind of chaos I hate.
But I’d agreed.
I started the engine. The low hum filled the silence. I pulled out of the lot, already bracing myself for the mess waiting in my penthouse. And the fact that even a packed room wasn’t going to make me stop thinking about her.