Chapter 1
1
FARRON
I stepped into the locker room, the scent of antiseptic and lingering sweat a familiar balm to my senses. No matter how often they cleaned this place, that odor never truly left. Not that I minded it. This was what home smelled like to me, and I inhaled deeply, a grin breaking free.
Lockers stood in silent rows, dented from years of jostling and jubilant cheers, their blue paint chipped away to reveal a history of victories and defeats. Most of the team was already there—I had stopped by Coach’s office first—and a cacophony of chatter filled the air, interspersed with the echo of cleats on concrete and the rattle of metal doors swinging open and closed.
Thank fuck summer break was over. I couldn’t wait to get back on the field with my team, the Hawley Hawks, for my second year—and last, since I was a senior—as team captain.
“Hey, Farron!”
My teammates welcomed me back and we exchanged hugs, slaps on the back, and brief summaries of what we’d done in the summer. Mine was super short, as always. I’d worked and I’d played soccer. That was it. Well, I’d hung out with my three siblings too, but that wasn’t any more exciting than the other two activities. My life might be boring, but I was fine with that. One more year, and I would have my degree… and hopefully play for a club.
I slapped my rusty locker, number fourteen, with fondness. “Hello, old friend. Let’s hope you’ll bring me luck once more.”
We’d come far last season, and I had high hopes for this year. We had a great team and the best coach on the planet. All we needed to do was lock in and get it done, and we’d make it all the way to the championship and maybe even nationals.
I was settling in, lacing up my worn-out cleats that needed to hold out just a little longer, when the door to the locker room opened and a tall, lean guy with meticulously styled blond hair stepped in, an easy smile on his face. “I’ve found the football team, yes?”
I snorted as I took in his designer jeans and shirt that probably cost more than I made at my job in a year. I might not give two shits about clothes, but that didn’t mean I’d never heard of brands like Balenciaga. The kid had money. Also, football? Was he serious? They’d squash him like a goddamn bug. “Football is on the other side of the campus, near the, you know, football fields. This is soccer.”
He chuckled. “My apologies. I haven’t fully grown accustomed to the appropriate terminology. I’m from Europe, where we call it football… like the rest of the world.”
Arrogant asshole. Oh, fuck. I knew who he was. “You’re that international student from Norway. Tore something.” I pronounced it the way it was spelled, like the past tense of tear.
“It’s pronounced Tor-ay, and yes, that’s me.” He walked toward me and offered me his hand. “Tore Haakon. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Faint snickers came from the rest of the team. Make your acquaintance? What kind of old-fashioned expression was that? “Farron Carey, team captain.”
His blue eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s a pleasure. I’m looking forward to playing with you and the team this year.”
I couldn’t exactly say the same. Coach had only told me about him joining the team fifteen minutes ago, and to say I wasn’t happy about it was an understatement. Sure, I trusted Coach when he said the kid was good—good enough that he could’ve made it to the big leagues if he’d tried, Coach had assured me—but that didn’t mean I liked having a freshman join the team as a first-string player. Especially not one who would hog the spotlight, and this kid looked like you couldn’t drag him away from it if you tried.
“Locker twenty-nine is yours,” I said. “Hurry the fuck up with changing because we’re starting in two minutes, and Coach doesn’t tolerate tardiness. And neither do I.”
His smile didn’t falter. “Perfect.”
I kept an eye on him as he changed, not missing the way his eyes lit up when he saw his jersey with his name on it. At least he was properly impressed with the honor of playing for Hawley College. But then I spotted his cleats and my mouth tightened. Holy shit, he was wearing the latest Nike cleats, the ones that cost, like, nine hundred bucks. His parents had to be fucking loaded.
The locker room chatter died down as Coach Gold made his entrance, an imposing figure whose authority was as much a part of him as the whistle around his neck. “All right, Hawks!” he bellowed. “Circle up.”
We shuffled into a tight group, each player casting curious glances at the others, sizing up both friends and new competition. Coach clapped his hands together once, commanding silence as his gaze swept over us. “We have some new faces. Let’s get to know the team. Name, position, and if you want, a fun fact. Keep it quick.”
We went around the circle, some guys boasting hometown glory while others offered up trivia ranging from weird pet—a pig? Seriously?—to even weirder hobbies. I kept my arms folded across my chest, my stance firm.
When it was Tore’s turn, he had an easy smile. “Hey, I’m Tore,” he began, his accent a clear giveaway of his European roots. “I’m a center midfielder, and I’m from Norway, which is known for its fjords. It’s also one of the happiest countries in the world.”
That explained his perpetual smile, then. Didn’t make it less annoying. And what the hell were fjords?
“I’m excited about playing for Hawley College this year and giving it my all.”
When my turn came, I kept it brief. “Farron Carey, center-back and team captain. I’m here to play soccer, win games, and lead this team to victory.”
I wasn’t gonna share anything personal. Let them judge me by my game, not some contrived tidbit meant to endear me to them.
Coach nodded, satisfied with my no-nonsense approach, and I retreated, my glare lingering on Tore for a split second longer than necessary. His eyes met mine, unflinching, and for a brief moment, I saw the challenge reflected back at me. Hmm, maybe he had more of a backbone than I’d initially thought.
But then he flashed me a toothy smile. Nah, he wasn’t a threat.
“To the field, Hawks!” Coach barked, and we were moving, a disjointed stream of blue jerseys flowing out of the locker room and into the open air.
I jogged out, feeling the familiar thrill that always surged through me at the start of a new season. The sun beat down on the soccer field, turning the air thick with midday heat. August in Ohio was usually muggy to the point of unbearable, though I’d gotten used to it, having grown up only a hundred miles from Hawley.
As my cleats hit the grass, I felt solid, grounded, despite the fact Tore effortlessly sidled up beside me, his blond hair reflecting the sunlight like some kind of halo. I spared him a glance, my jaw clenched tight, and his eyes flickered toward me. I turned away sharply, focusing on the green expanse before us as I took the lead in our warm-up. Three full turns around the soccer field, then five minutes of exercises to warm up and loosen each major muscle group.
“We’re starting with the basics,” Coach said when we were done with the warm-up. “Team up for passing drills.”
I paired up with Jake, another senior and one of our strikers, and we fell into an easy rhythm forged over three years of playing together. We jogged up the field, passing the ball back and forth in a steady cadence, never missing a beat. And when we’d reached the end of the field, we turned right back around and made our way back, keeping it tight to give everyone else space.
Tore had found a partner in Colin, my roommate for the second consecutive year and our goalie. I’d known Tore was tall, but seeing him next to Colin made that even clearer. Colin was the tallest on the team at six foot five, and Tore was only an inch or so shorter.
He and Colin ran parallel to Jake and me, so it was easy for me to observe him. He moved with an effortless grace that made it impossible not to watch. His passes were crisp and precise, the ball landing directly in front of Colin’s feet. At least he had technical skills, then. That fancy footwork didn’t mean he’d do well in a game, but it was a start.
“Let’s run defensive drills. Carey and Tore, pair up.”
Had Coach picked up on my feelings toward Tore? Or was this because I hadn’t exactly been subtle about my annoyance over this addition to the team? Either way, I’d have to suck it up. Great. Just fucking great.
I strode over to the designated spot, with Tore following close behind. I could feel his eyes on my back, probably sizing me up or trying to get under my skin. But I wouldn’t let him; I couldn’t afford to.
The concept of these drills was simple. The attacker, Tore in this case, had the ball, and my job as the defender was to separate him from it. We took to the field in positions opposite each other. Tore didn’t say anything as I created some distance between us, then started his dribble forward. I’d expected him to make an evasive maneuver, to try and outflank me, but he came straight at me, his eyes trained on me.
I came at him, my right foot shooting out toward the ball… which wasn’t there anymore. He’d moved it from one foot to the other so fast that I lost track for a second. Fuck, he was quick on his feet. I tried again, but he did a lightning-fast roll and stopover, stopping the ball with his back foot and tapping it lightly to move it to the side.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, unable to shake the sense of awe that crept up my spine. His footwork was impeccable, a delicate balance of finesse and power, and he outplayed me with an ease that was as impressive as it was annoying. Dammit, he was good. But so was I, and I wasn’t about to let him show me up on my own turf.
I forgot about everything else as I focused on the ball. Hell if I was gonna let a freshman get the better of me. “Again,” I snapped.
We swapped roles with him trying to take the ball from me. He was taller than me, but I was bulkier, and I used that to my advantage, shoving him aside. Well, that had been the plan, but he stood his ground, not budging.
I blasted the ball downfield, my gaze fixed on the net when Tore slid into my periphery, intercepting with a deft touch that sent a ripple of irritation coursing through me. “Nice block,” I grunted, more an acknowledgment of his presence than genuine praise.
“Thank you, Farron,” he replied, his accent smooth yet grating. “Your pass was quite impressive too.”
“Save it.” Did he really think I wanted his approval? I brushed past him to reclaim my position.
But in the end, I had to admit he was good. Really, really good. Still didn’t mean he’d be able to replicate those skills in an actual game, but he’d outsmarted me seven out of ten times. I’d have to step up my game if I wanted to beat him.
“Watch and learn, Farron,” Jake teased when we were done with the defensive drills, elbowing me lightly in the ribs. “Maybe you’ll pick up a thing or two.”
“Shut it.”
Admiration was a bitter pill to swallow, especially when directed at someone like Tore, whose life had probably been handed to him on a silver platter. This was my field, my dominion, and I’d be damned if I let Tore’s European charm and flair outshine my own hard-earned skills.
With renewed determination, I charged into the fray for our next drill. My passes were sharp and calculated, and my movements, though not as fluid as Tore’s, were effective.
“Nice hustle!” someone shouted, and the gazes of my teammates followed me, their respect something tangible that I thrived on.
As practice wore on, sweat clung to my skin like a second jersey, my breaths coming in heavy torrents. But I didn’t let up, not even for a second. By the time Coach blew the whistle, signaling the end of practice, my legs were shot, but my spirit soared. I’d set out to prove myself, and if the burning in my lungs and the ache in my muscles were any indications, I’d done just that.
“Good work today, team,” Coach said. “We’re shaping up nicely. Keep this intensity, and we’ll have a hell of a season.”
Damn straight. If Tore was as good in games as he was in practice, he’d be an asset, even if he was an ass. All I had to do was work hard, set a good example, maintain momentum, and lead the team to victory.
And as for Tore… Well, he’d have to get used to sharing the spotlight.