Chapter 4
4
TORE
The piercing whistle cut through the air.
“Tore!” Coach’s voice boomed across the field, his eyes zeroing in on me. “Stick to your position, goddammit. You’re all over the place.”
“Sorry, Coach!”
Fuck, I was doing it again. Stupid Americans and their rigid-position football. I had been trained according to the concept of total football, where each player had flexibility on the field and could fluidly move when and where needed. Another player would simply take over. The originally Dutch approach had now found favor with many coaches worldwide, but not Coach Gold.
Playing with rigid positions felt like a straitjacket, but Coach Gold had made his tactics clear, and I knew better than to argue mid-session. I wasn’t gonna change his mind, but god, I really needed a way to remember to not move around on the field as much.
The drills continued, each pass and play sharpening our skills, but I couldn’t shake off the sensation of being watched. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Farron’s piercing gaze, his dark brows furrowed. Even from a distance, the disdain was palpable, like an electric current charging the space between us.
He’d been such a dick to me at the party last week, and he’d truly hurt me with his accusation I was a rich, spoiled kid. Well, technically, he wasn’t wrong. I was rich and I had been spoiled in many ways. I wasn’t disputing that.
No, it had been his statement that I had no idea what obligations were that had hit home. My whole life was nothing but obligations. I’d given up my dream because of obligations and duties to my family, my country. In fact, this year was the first time in my entire life that I was doing something for myself—and I’d had to fight tooth and nail for it.
What was Farron’s problem? I’d never done anything to him, yet he constantly treated me as if I’d pissed in his Cheerios—which was an amazing expression, by the way. Luke had taught me that one yesterday, and I loved it.
But back to Farron, I had no clue what to do to make him like me. Hell, at this point, I’d even settle for him to stop hating me and plain ignore me. But how? What had I done to earn his instant disapproval and judgment?
A ball swished by me. Crap, I needed to stop thinking about Farron and get my head in the game. I pushed down everything else and locked in. This was my time, and hell if I was gonna let Farron ruin it for me.
When another ball hurtled toward me, I pivoted on my heel, sending it flying down the wing with a deft touch. Simon sprinted forward and spun by Farron, who’d been too focused on me. I took off in an Olympic-record dash and was in the perfect position for Simon’s pass back. With a little flourish, I sent it into the upper right corner of the net. Goal!
“Epic goal!” Simon hugged me to celebrate.
“Thank you! Your pass was perfect. Right in front of my feet.”
When he let me go, I turned to see Farron striding over, his face set hard. My stomach dropped. What had I done now?
“Stick to your damn position, Tore,” he spat out, the words like bullets. “You can’t just switch wings because you see an opportunity to score. This is not the Tore Haakon show.”
He was drawing stares from the other players who’d skidded to a halt, their attention snatched away from the scrimmage.
“Ease up, Farron,” one of them called out, a note of caution in his voice. But it was like waving a red flag at a bull.
“Stay out of this, Colin,” Farron snapped, eyes never leaving mine. His eyes were fierce, the intensity of his anger burning there like molten steel. The air between us crackled with animosity.
“But I?—”
“Save it.” He jabbed a finger at my chest. “You screw up our formation and get everyone confused. Stick to your position or get off the goddamned field.”
I’d never been more grateful for my years of training to keep my composure in public, no matter what vitriol was slung at me. “My eagerness sometimes gets the better of my judgment. I’ll endeavor to keep to my assigned role.”
“He did score,” Simon said, and I admired his balls to speak up when Farron looked like he was about to clock me out cold.
Farron shot him a look that had Simon take a step back. “It’s not about scoring. It’s about playing as a team.”
I crossed my arms. “And here I thought goals were what got us wins. Or do Americans give trophies for team spirit?”
Suppressed sniggers rang out around me, and Farron’s face darkened even more. “You think this is funny?”
“The team spirit comment was funny, cap,” RJ said. “Come on, Farron, lighten up. The kid is playing well and trying to win, like everyone else on the team.”
Oh, this was not what I had intended. People were now choosing my side against Farron’s, which would only make him hate me even more. But what choice did I have? Was I supposed to stand there and take whatever verbal garbage he was throwing at me?
I had to salvage what I could. “I’ll try harder to stick to my assigned position, but you have to understand that I?—”
“I don’t have to understand anything except that you’re a midfielder who should do what he’s told.”
I could feel the eyes of my teammates, heavy with a mix of curiosity and discomfort, watching the drama unfold. My hands clenched into fists. I had never lost my temper in public, and I sure wasn’t about to start now. “If you’ll allow me to explain. I was trained?—”
“Newsflash, you self-centered little shit. No one cares.”
“Carey!” Coach shouted. “A word, please.”
Farron froze for a moment, then spun on his heels and jogged toward Coach, who did not look happy. Had he overheard Farron’s remark? On the one hand, I hoped Coach would dress him down for speaking to a fellow teammate like that, but on the other, it would only make things worse.
RJ put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you. For some reason, he’s even grumpier than usual, and he’s taking it out on you. He’ll come around. Just keep scoring goals.”
“Thanks. I sure hope so. It was never my intention to cause discord.”
RJ grinned. “The way you talk cracks me up, dude. You sound like some British prince or something. So fucking formal.”
My cheeks heated. If only he knew. “My apologies. I’m still adapting to the American vernacular as I was raised with British English.”
“Nah, don’t bother. It’s all part of your Eurocharm,” RJ joked. “And the chicks totally dig it. You were quite the sensation at the party.”
Was he serious? I’d only tried to make some friends and I’d been elated to have succeeded. Well, with Farron as the notable exception, of course. “I had fun.”
Farron came running back, his face tight. “Back to work.”
He didn’t look at me, but I had no doubt he blamed me for everything. How had things escalated this quickly? My intention had never been to disrupt or cause strife, only to add flair and create room for myself to shine and elevate the team with me. Was Farron right? Was that selfish?
The question kept running through my head during the rest of the practice. What could I do to avoid further tensions with Farron? How could I teach myself to stop moving out of my position? Maybe I could write a reminder on my hand or arm so that I’d see it while playing? We had our first game in a few days, and if I forgot then, things could get ugly.
I had to figure out something, but for now, I’d better focus on the next scrimmage, where Farron and I had been put on the same team. Maybe Coach hoped it would solve the tension between us? I highly doubted it would be effective, considering Farron’s glares in my direction.
“Tore! On your right!” The call snapped me back into action, my legs pumping as I sprinted toward the edge of the field. I swerved past a defender, feeling the muscles in my thighs tighten, power propelling me forward. With a deft maneuver, I crossed the ball toward the penalty area, setting up a teammate for a shot at goal. He missed, but it had been a nice play.
The ball rolled at a feverish pace, pursued by the determined thuds of cleats against the grass. My focus was absolute, every fiber of my being attuned to the rhythm of the game. Yes, this was why I was here. Not for glory, not for accolades, but for the sheer, unadulterated joy of the sport.
“Nice one, Tore!” someone shouted as I intercepted a pass, the adrenaline surging through my veins. I allowed myself a flash of pride—a reminder that I belonged here, among the pulse of the game and the camaraderie of teammates who judged me solely on my merit and mettle.
Farron kicked it up the field with a bit of a sloppy pass, too far away from anyone but me to intercept it, so I sprinted forward and managed to catch it against my chest, then bring it down to my feet. With a smooth heel flick, I passed Joey, who was playing defense for the other team, and with a rocket-like shot, I sent it into the net.
Before I could celebrate, Farron’s shadow loomed over me. “Dammit, Tore, what did I tell you?”
“I was the only one in position to accept that pass,” I protested. “No one else was even close.”
“Are you criticizing my pass?”
I was so over this. “You know what? I am. That was a sloppy pass, and you bloody well know it. Yes, I was out of position, but no one else would’ve been able to intercept but me, and if that means going out of my box, then so be it. If you don’t want me to do that, then fucking pass where I don’t have to.”
His face grew red, but I stood my ground, refusing to back down. I’d had enough of his verbal abuse for the day. I’d tried to stay kind and friendly and even to explain myself, but if he was determined to find fault with me no matter what, it wouldn’t make a difference. I might as well keep my pride and stand up for myself.
Without saying another word, he spun around and stalked off. As I watched him walk away, something within me wilted. It wasn’t the weight of unaccepted apologies or the burden of proving myself. It was the realization that no matter how hard I tried, some battles couldn’t be won by sheer determination alone, and this was one of them.
“Hey, ignore him,” Daniel whispered, clapping a hand on my shoulder. But the comfort fell flat. I nodded, dredging up a small smile. I’d never be able to bridge the divide between Farron and me. And it hurt more than I had expected it to… and more than it should.
As the whistle signaled the end of practice, I took a deep breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like sweat as I headed to the locker rooms with everyone else.
“Hey, Tore, nice footwork out there!” Ethan called out as we entered the locker rooms. I shot him a grateful smile, appreciating the camaraderie that seemed to come so easily with everyone but Farron.
“Thanks, mate. Just trying to keep up with you lot.”
The interaction was brief, but it fortified something within me. I didn’t need Farron’s approval to succeed here at Hawley College. My own abilities spoke for themselves, and the nods of respect from the others were a testament.
As I peeled off my sweat-soaked jersey, tossing it into my bag, a sense of clarity washed over me—a bright, unwavering certainty that was as refreshing as the cold shower I was about to take.
This was my year undercover, away from the weighty expectations of my lineage, and I was determined to make every moment count, with or without Farron Carey’s approval.
And it would have to be without. I would never win him over, so I had to stop wasting energy on it.
“Focus on the ball, not the bullshit,” I repeated Luke’s advice. I’d make that my new mantra.
I was determined to excel, to show everyone, including myself, that I was more than a prince, even if they didn’t know who I really was. This was my year, and I would make the most of it, come what may. It was liberating, this newfound independence from seeking validation from someone who had already decided not to like me.
I glanced briefly at Farron, who was behind me, avoiding my gaze. Let Farron stew in his hostility. I would rise above, untethered from the desire to win over someone whose opinion could not alter my course.
Or, as my teammates would say, fuck him.
Of course, that conviction only lasted about a day.