Chapter Ten Friendly Fire
Chapter Ten
Friendly Fire
Present day
“So… you, uh, know Nathan Carter?” Jude’s voice was casual, but the question landed like a stone in Freddie’s gut.
Freddie got into the car, starting the engine, clenching the steering wheel a little too tight as Jude climbed in beside him, juggling his bag and a stack of papers onto the passenger side floor.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Sort of.”
Jude adjusted his glasses, glancing sideways. “Because of Alfie? He’s the teen you mentioned Sunday. The one you had to arrest for assault. Possibly drugs?”
Freddie winced. Brilliant. This was exactly why he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
Why he shouldn’t be policing in the same damn postcode he grew up in.
What every instructor at Essex Police College had warned him about.
Don’t police your own town. Too messy. Too personal.
He’d nodded along, cocky and sure it wouldn’t apply to him.
Yet here he was. With Jude, whom he’d kissed, who he maybe liked or could’ve liked, now teaching the son of the man Freddie still dreamt about. Ached for. Couldn’t scrub from his system no matter how many years or bodies had passed.
He sighed, eyes fixed on the road. “We, uh… went to school together. This one, funnily enough.” Freddie settled on the safest version of the truth. “Back when it was still Worthbridge Comprehensive. Before the Academy rebrand.”
“Ah.” Jude glanced out the window. “That must be… awkward.”
Freddie gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah. Could say that.”
Jude hesitated, then added, “I heard he’s back from the army. Do you know why? What happened? Where Alfie’s mum is?”
Freddie closed his eyes for half a second too long, then jerked them open again. Stupid. You’re driving.
“Can we not?” His strain leaked into every word. “Not right now.”
The car settled into a heavy silence. Only the quiet hum of the engine filling the space, underscoring the tension winding tighter in Freddie’s chest .
“Sorry,” Jude said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to push. It’s… the more I understand about Alfie’s situation, the better I can support him in class.”
Freddie forced a smile. Of course, Jude cared. Thoughtful. Steady. Compassionate to a fault. And it only made Freddie feel worse. Because Jude wasn’t the problem. He was good. Solid. A man he should want to come home to.
But he wasn’t Nathan .
Having Jude beside him in the car, all soft-spoken concern and good intentions, only highlighted the hollow ache inside Freddie.
The one he’d been trying to fill since the second Nathan walked out of his life.
When Nathan had been away, Freddie could lie to himself.
Could pretend that whatever he was building with whoever he had been with at the time might one day be enough.
But Nathan wasn’t away anymore.
He was back.
Indefinitely .
The rest of the drive was quiet. Not peaceful. Awkward. Loaded . Jude must’ve felt it too, though he didn’t say another word. He stared out the window as if realising too late he’d boarded the wrong train.
Get through the match. Take him home. Then be honest.
Harrow Park loomed into view. Its community gym, tennis courts and netball hoops buzzing with late-day activity.
The car park was already half full, the overflow spilling onto the verges.
Freddie pulled into a spot near the changing huts and the moment he stepped out, he spotted Reece.
Helmet under his arm, full leathers peeled down to his waist and grinning as he held court with the fire squad.
Reece lifted a hand in greeting. Freddie gave a tight nod. Nothing more. No energy for that .
He popped the boot, grabbed his sports bag, and slung it over his shoulder as Jude stepped out of the passenger side, zipping up his coat to stave off the sea breeze rolling inland across the pitch.
“I’ll head over to the sidelines, yeah?” Jude scanned the gathering crowd. “Find a spot to cheer you on.”
Freddie nodded, biting back the guilt clawing through his chest. Jude didn’t deserve this.
Didn’t deserve to be dragged along into some emotional holding pattern while Freddie’s head and heart twisted in knots over someone else.
But Jude had wandered off easily enough, spotting a few women gathered near the sideline.
Teachers, maybe? Or school mums he knew from the PTA.
They ushered him into their fold, and he stepped into it as if he belonged there.
That helped. A little.
So Freddie slung his kit bag over his shoulder and made his way across the tarmac to the changing huts, the scent of turf, sweat, and salt in the air. But when he shouldered open the door to the men’s, he stopped.
Because, once again, there was Nathan Carter .
Stood with his back to him, hunched over, he peeled off his T-shirt, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth motion.
Freddie’s mouth went dry. Nathan’s back was broad and powerful, dusted with old scars like a map of where he’d been.
Pale lines drawn across sun-warmed skin, a story written in wounds.
His shoulder blades shifted with every breath, muscle rolling beneath skin and he looked leaner than before.
Not leaner. Harder . The army had chiselled him into solid granite, dangerous and destructive, but still achingly familiar.
And devastatingly stunning.
Nathan turned.
And Freddie drew in a breath .
Because there was something new. Something he didn’t recognise. That wasn’t familiar. A piece of Nathan that he hadn’t gazed at, stroked or licked.
Across Nathan’s left pectoral, close to his heart, was a tattoo of a compass. Worn and weathered in design, as though inked there a lifetime ago, lines slightly faded, not from neglect, but from time and sun and service . Like him, it had been through things.
Around the outer ring, etched in a military block font lifted straight off a dog tag, were the words: Always North. The letters were defined, clean. But the N stood out. Stylised. Different. A touch more elaborate than the rest.
Freddie tilted his head, taking it in. Wondering.
Then he lifted his gaze, and their eyes met.
Freddie didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare .
Nathan’s chest rose, and for one taut, breathless second, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The years fell away. Along with the pain. The silence. The hurt. All of it. Stripped as bare as the man standing in front of him.
But the door slammed open behind Freddie, lads bursting in and the changing hut flooded with noise. Laughter, shouting, boots thudding on tile, the scent of sweat and deep heat filling the air.
Freddie jolted, instinctively stepping back as Nathan snapped his head towards the door, caught mid-movement, chest still bare, that damn compass tattoo exposed for half a second longer before a red and black jersey came flying over Freddie’s shoulder, and with it a familiar leather gloved hand clapped down on Freddie’s arm.
“Don’t mind, do ya, Fred?” Reece, full of smug confidence, strode past him. “Nate’s stepping in for our lost striker. ”
Freddie blinked, brain still lagging. “Uh… where’s Zak?”
“Paternity leave.” Reece dropped down on the bench beside Nathan as if they were old mates. “That’s his jersey. Don’t worry, it’s washed. By his wife. Fairy softener and everything.”
Nathan held it up by the shoulders, the silk sheen of the fire service jersey catching the fluorescent lights, red and black stitched with the bold sponsor’s name, Stanley’s Auto Salvage , with the tagline, You bend it, we mend it curling under the crest. More a threat than a tagline.
Freddie glared at it.
Because it was blocking his view.
Then Nathan popped his head through it and spoke to Reece. “Your part came in. Bring the bike back tomorrow, I’ll fix it.”
“Perfect.” Reece grinned up at Freddie and winked.
But the rest of the Front-Line squad barrelled in, not giving Freddie the chance to flip Reece off as the hut roared louder still.
Lads thumping each other on the back, bags thudding onto benches, the stink of aftershave and spray and testosterone rolling in thick as fog.
Freddie had no choice but to pull himself together and start changing, forcing his head into the game.
As he peeled off his clothes, he glanced across the row of bodies and kit bags to where Nathan sat on the opposite bench, bent over his laces.
He was tying them with the same intensity he used to tie camo boots in his back garden when they were sixteen and pretending to be soldiers.
But there was something different in him now.
Harder. Weathered. Because he’d tied real, proper soldier boots for years now.
Nathan glanced up as Freddie looked over and Freddie caught the low, secret sweep of Nathan’s eyes across his chest, shoulders, arms. Lower.
A covert glance only noticeable to those spent their whole life learning how to spot it.
And Nathan had clearly mastered that look, honed it in barracks and locker rooms where watching had to be hidden in plain sight.
But Freddie noticed. And he didn’t mind one bit.
Let him look.
He’d worked for this body. Earned it with years of pounding pavements, mandatory fitness drills, and a self-discipline that came from being a copper with something to prove.
He was stronger now, more defined. Not the wiry kid Nathan had last seen shirtless in a teenage bedroom. He was a man. Muscle, power, control.
And if Nathan wanted to take a second glance?
Freddie wouldn’t stop him.
He wasn’t as broad as Nathan, not that kind of bulk, but he was toned. Strong. A man who worked on himself because of the job. And maybe his pride.
Then Nathan blinked, looking up fully this time, and met Freddie’s gaze.
“Oi! No dirty playing this time, Webb!” Reece hollered, breaking the spell and bouncing to his feet, already kitted out in the Fire Service reds. He pointed across the room at Freddie like a referee mid-card.