Chapter 5
5
FARRON
Nerves battled with excitement as I laced up my cleats. We were about to play our homecoming game, which also happened to be our first game of the season, and we’d be facing our archrival, Connor College. The rivalry dated back decades and was ingrained in our culture. Few things mattered more than beating the Connor Condors.
Yes, condors were literally twice as big as hawks—I’d looked it up in my freshman year—and we were the underdogs for sure. We hadn’t bested them in fourteen games, and that needed to change. Today. Unfortunately, our first game of this season would be against them, which wasn’t ideal as we’d barely played together as a team. But it would have to do.
“Listen up!” My voice carried through the locker room with confidence despite the riot of nerves beneath my skin. “Today, we end this damned losing streak!”
Heads lifted, eyes locked on me with the fierce hunger that only comes when you’ve tasted defeat more times than victory. “Connor College thinks they’ve got this in the bag. They think that because they’ve won the last fourteen games, we’re gonna roll over and let ’em take it. Hell no! We’re the Hawks, and we fight with everything we’ve got!”
I paused, letting the silence hang heavy for a moment. My gaze swept the circle of my teammates, everyone’s expression showing a determination mirroring my own. Tore’s face shone with excitement. Fuck, that kid had better stick to the plan. If I caught him drifting out of position again, I’d bench him myself. Though I’d have to be careful. Coach hadn’t liked it when I’d called Tore a self-centered little shit, and he’d given me a warning.
“Let’s show them what we’re made of. Play hard, play fair, but above all”—I clenched my jaw, the growl in my tone rising like a battle cry—“play to win!”
A chorus of shouts met my final words, the team erupting into a cacophony of warlike whoops and hollers.
“Bring it in,” I commanded, and they surged forward, hands stacking atop one another at the center of our huddle. Blue-and-yellow jerseys blurred into a singular force of will.
“ONE TEAM!” I bellowed.
“ONE DREAM!” they responded, voices melding into a thunderous promise of the battle to come.
“LET’S GO TAKE WHAT’S OURS!”
As one, we thrust our hands skyward, a unified gesture of defiance and hope. It was more than a game—it was redemption, it was pride, it was us against the world. No one believed in us, but we did. I did. No matter how this ended, we would leave every drop of sweat and blood out there on that field because that was what Hawks did: we soared higher, we dug deeper, and we never, ever gave up. At least, that was what I told myself and what I wanted the team to believe.
The whistle’s sharp tweet unleashed us onto the field, a flurry of determination as we clashed with our rivals from the get-go. The first five minutes were the usual chaotic back and forth as we battled for dominance and control of the game—a battle Connor College won.
Their defense was weak, but they had fantastic midfielders and wingers, and rumors were that Devin McGregor, their star striker, was in negotiations with a European club. I hated his guts, of course, but I couldn’t deny he was brilliant. And above all, fast. On the counter, he could out-sprint anyone and everyone, and I saw far more of him on my end of the field than I wanted to.
Fuck, here he came again, charging up the field, always smart enough to not be offside. He could afford to with his speed. Tore was chasing him, but he couldn’t catch up, having been too far forward again. Fucker.
I braced myself, my eyes focused on the ball. When McGregor came close, I saw my chance and slid between his legs, managing to get the ball away from him. It rolled over the goal line. Corner for the Condors. It sucked, but it was better than the alternative because there had not been a single player between McGregor and our goalie other than me.
We took up positions. “Little to the left,” Colin shouted at Tore, who was apparently blocking his view. No wonder. The kid was tall.
The Condors player hit the ball perfectly, and a wave of players jumped up to attempt to head it. RJ managed to hit it, aiming it sideways and away from the goal. Fuck! He dropped it right in front of McGregor, who didn’t hesitate and tapped it straight into the goal with a little flick of his foot. No offside, of course, so that was a goal against us.
“Keep pressing, Hawks!” I shouted as we jogged back to our starting positions from the center line, my shouts partly to encourage, partly to drown out the growing voice of dread in my gut. We were playing hard, but it wasn’t enough. It never seemed to be.
Adam passed the ball to Tore, who took it forward in a blur of motion, zigzagging past the Condors’ defense. Pass it, pass it, fucking pass it! I was chanting it inside my head, but Tore kept the ball, deftly outmaneuvering all defenders. He was good. I might hate his guts, but he had better technical skills than any of us.
Out of nowhere, a Condors defender tackled Tore, aiming for his ankles and sending him flying to the ground, rolling a few times before his body came to a stop.
“What the fuck!” I yelled, but the ref was already on it, whistling sharply and immediately reaching for a yellow card.
The fucker had done it on purpose, of course, just like I’d taken yellow cards if I saw no other way to prevent a goal. But I usually waited with dirty tactics like that until things were dire. They were ahead, so why had he done it so early in the game?
Tore was still on the ground, clutching his ankle, and I jogged over, pushing everyone who was in my way aside. “You okay?”
“Not sure,” he said between gritted teeth.
I immediately waved at Becca Leigh, the team’s athletic trainer who also worked as an EMT, and she came running, carrying her bag. Coach jogged over as well.
As Becca knelt next to Tore, immediately icing his ankle, the team huddled around Coach and me. The Condors had retreated, giving us some space, and while Tore was being treated, we might as well use the time for some strategy.
“Farron and Adam, I want you two on that McGregor kid like fleas on a dog. Daniel, you gotta speed up your passes. The extra touches are costing ya.” Coach continued to give a whirlwind of instructions until Tore was back on his feet, still wincing slightly when he put his full weight on his ankle.
“You good to play?” the ref checked.
Tore nodded. “Yes, Ref.”
Coach and Becca jogged off the field as everyone got back into position. “Good huddle?” Tore asked, winking at me.
Why the fuck was he…? My eyes traveled to his ankle, which suddenly seemed fine as he jumped a few times, landing without wincing. Had he faked the whole thing to give us some time? The tackle had been real and should’ve been yellow under any circumstance, but maybe he hadn’t been as badly hurt as he let on.
We had needed it. A hard reset like that could make all the difference, and I owed him for that. “Yes. Thanks.”
The game resumed, and a renewed vigor pulsed through the team, fueled by Coach’s instructions or maybe by the shared desperation to not let our dreams slip through our fingers. It was only the first half, but still.
I charged, slid, blocked, and tackled, my brow slick with effort as our opponents matched us stride for stride. Fuck, they were relentless, battering our defense like a proverbial ram, looking for our weak spot.
And they found it.
Luke, my fellow center-back, tripped as he attempted to block an attack, this time from the left flank, by their other striker. Probably because Adam and I hadn’t given McGregor even an inch of space. And now their striker sailed past Adam and, with a bullet from outside the penalty box, hit the net. Fuck.
Zero-two. We were behind, and the taste of looming defeat was bitter on my tongue.
“Focus!” I barked at the team as we regrouped. “We can’t let them walk all over us! We need to amp it up!”
But we played like the air had been let out of our tires. The halftime whistle blew, signaling a temporary reprieve from the relentless pace of the game. I bent over, hands on knees, sucking in air like it was my last lifeline until my lungs stopped hurting.
We trudged into the locker rooms, where I immediately guzzled down a Gatorade. My whole body hurt as I peeled off my sweat-soaked shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket. I needed to keep moving, albeit at a snail’s pace, and so I slowly walked around the room as I wolfed down two energy gel packs and a dark-chocolate-and-sea-salt bar. Bananas were almost everyone’s favorite for a quick energy boost, but they gave me horrible heartburn unless I ate them with yogurt. My body was funny that way.
“Listen up!” The room quieted immediately when Coach spoke up. “We’re playing well, but it’s not enough. They’re still outrunning us, outpacing us, and outsmarting us.” He turned to me. “You and Adam did a good job guarding McGregor, but it left the other flank too vulnerable.”
“I know. That’s how they scored the second time.”
“So Adam will have to go back to his old position, and you’ll have to do it by yourself, Farron.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Coach addressed the whole team again. “Their defense is weak. It’s their offense that’s strong, but if we can create an opportunity for a fast counter, we could break through their defense and score.”
I agreed, but how could we do that when we were constantly playing defense? Coach didn’t seem to have any concrete ideas either, though he did sub in Simon for Ethan so we had an extra midfielder. But would that be enough?
“Coach, can I make a suggestion?”
That was Tore, of course, and I gritted my teeth.
“What’s on your mind?” Coach asked him.
“Now that we have an extra midfielder, is it possible for me to have a bit more flexibility in my position? You know I’m fast. We haven’t been able to get the ball forward far enough for our strikers, but we’ve had plenty of possession in the midfield. If you’ll allow me to move up the lines more, I can take it and make a run for it.”
“By yourself, of course,” I snapped before Coach could say anything.
“Well, yes, because passing it would mean risking it being intercepted. Plus, I’m the fastest. No one can keep up with me.”
The fact that he wasn’t wrong only pissed me off more.
Coach scratched his beard. “I’m not usually a fan of experiments in the middle of a game, but we’re two down with little to lose at this point, so if you see an opportunity, go for it.”
“Thank you, Coach. I won’t let you down.”
Tore was motivated to win, that much I had to give him. And I didn’t have time for anything else as we needed to get back onto the field, so I quickly put on a fresh compression tank and a clean jersey, then led the team out.
We took our positions on the other side of the field, and the whistle shrieked, signaling the start of the second half. I could feel the energy thrumming through the team, an electric current that seemed to jumpstart a renewed sense of purpose. We were back in the fight, and fight we did, repelling wave after wave of attack, even breaking out a few times ourselves.
I intercepted a pass to McGregor and, with a kick fueled by desperation, sent it up the field. Like a bolt from the blue, Tore came alive. He seized the ball from a tangle of legs and burst forward, a streak of blue and yellow weaving through defenders with an ease that left me breathless. There was an artistry to his movements that was undeniable—step, feint, twist, turn.
Our sidelines erupted as he broke free and shot forward in a sprint that left everyone in his dust until he was one-on-one with the goalkeeper. Time slowed, every heartbeat a drumroll, but then, with a precision that felt almost surgical, he slotted the ball into the back of the net.
“YESSS!” The cheer ripped from my throat, raw and triumphant. Around me, the team surged forward, a wave of elation crashing over me as they mobbed Tore, lifting him on their shoulders, his face alight with the thrill of success.
But as they set him down, a cold seed of resentment lodged itself in my gut. It was ludicrous. I should be ecstatic. We were back in the game, but inside me was this insidious whisper, reminding me it was Tore who’d turned the tide. Not me.
The match resumed with a fervor that bordered on frenzy. And Tore, damn him, remained the eye of the storm. When the ball found him again, it was like watching poetry in motion—a dance of such fluidity that even I couldn’t help but admire it. With a grace that belied his towering frame, he dispatched another shot past the goalie, the net billowing like a flag of surrender from Connor College.
“TORE! TORE! TORE!” The chant rose, but I couldn’t make myself join in. My emotions churned like a roiling sea of pride for my team with a bitter undercurrent of envy.
“Nice shot,” I managed to grind out when Tore trotted past, sweat slicking his blond hair to his forehead, eyes shining with triumph.
“Thank you, Farron.” His accent wrapped around my name, and he clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that should’ve warmed me. Instead, the heat of jealousy singed my insides.
“Keep it up.” I turned away, unable to bear the sight of his smile any longer. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t the time for pettiness or rivalry. This was what we had worked so hard for. Hell, this was the stuff of legends. We were tied against our archrival, all thanks to Tore, yet I was angry.
As I tore down the field, mud splattering up my shins, I could feel it: the divide between me and the rest of the Hawks. The cheers for Tore vibrated through the air, yet they seemed to bypass me as though I were a ghost among them. My teammates clapped each other on the backs, their faces flushed with the thrill of the chase, but their eyes… Their eyes kept darting to him. To Tore.
They’d chosen him over me. My dislike of him had not been a secret, and now I’d lost my team. The camaraderie that had once included me now felt like a private club where my membership had expired. I was the captain, dammit. But somehow, Tore’s easy charm and those ridiculous goals had made him the sun, and I’d become just another planet in a forced orbit around him. The fact that he deserved it made it burn even more.
The final whistle blew with us tying with Connor College for the first time in fourteen games. As our team converged in celebration, I hung back. The slap of hands, the exuberant yells—it all felt distant, like watching a scene from someone else’s life.
The air in the locker room was thick with the scent of sweat and victory—yes, we all counted tying as a victory—but it did nothing to mask the sense of isolation wrapping around me like a shroud. Laughter bounced off the walls, and every pat on the back felt like a reminder of a divide that kept widening.
“Good game,” Tore said, his bright-blue gaze finding mine. There was kindness there, maybe even a plea for acceptance. But something within me had shifted—and I seemed helpless to stop it.
“Thanks to you.” I had to force the words past my tight throat and turned away from him. I wouldn’t let him see me crumble. When I looked over my shoulder, he was walking away, his shoulders hunched.
Tore’s success on the field—those two goals that had everyone chanting his name—had ignited something unexpected: an undercurrent of rivalry… or was it envy? The emotions were too tangled to decipher, and I didn’t have the luxury of time to untie the knots.
“Good work out there, Carey. You held the line,” Coach’s gruff voice cut through the noise, bringing a semblance of normalcy.
“Thanks, Coach,” I said, trying to shake off the unease. “We pulled together when it counted. In the end, teamwork won.”
“Indeed.” His eyes flickered past me for a moment before returning with a knowing look. “But remember, teamwork doesn’t mean everyone is equal. It can also mean being selfless and giving stars room to shine.”
I absorbed his words, the implication clear. Tore was the comet streaking across our sky, and I…
Maybe I was a star that had already died, its light fading until nothing was left.
Fuck my life.
No, fuck Tore.