the captain’s armband
the captain's armband
CARLO'S SONG BY NOAH KAHAN
We’ve hit a wall.
It feels like the weight of the season—and everything riding on it—is pressing down on my shoulders.
The pressure has always been there. That's football. That's promotion races. That's what happens when a club spends months fighting its way to the top of the table.
But before, it felt manageable.
Now it feels like suffocating.
The last few matches have been a mix of errors. Draws that should have been wins. Close losses that hurt even more than a thrashing. One point here, none there. Every match feels like another opportunity slipping through our fingers.
The worst of it plays on a loop whether I want it to or not.
Seventy-third minute. We’re level with Sheffield Wednesday. Tight match, but winnable. I’ve got the ball at my feet just outside the box, Brennan making a run to my left, Sebastian calling for it up front. It’s simple. I’ve made that pass a thousand times.
There’s a window.
But then—
For half a second, the pitch doesn’t look right.
It’s not the stadium. Not the crowd. It’s a memory, bleeding through. A flash of a different field, years ago. Muddy grass. Hand-me-down boots. Two boys in oversized kits chasing something bigger than they understand.
Henry.
I can hear him like he’s right there beside me, shouting, laughing.
Now, Ollie. Send it now before it closes.
The memory hits so hard it almost feels real.
And then, just as quick, it shifts.
Another voice. Another feeling.
Addison in my kitchen, wrapped in one of my shirts. Addison in my bed. Addison saying, “just for the season” like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a countdown ticking in the back of my head every time I step onto the pitch.
The window in front of me narrows.
I see it happening. I know it’s happening.
And I still hesitate.
Because that’s the thing about windows. You always think you’ve got one more second. One more touch. One more match. One more morning.
You think there’s time.
There isn’t.
By the time I move, it’s gone.
I force the pass anyway, but it’s late. Sloppy. Intercepted clean. Their counterattack is fast and ruthless.
I’m still turning when the net ripples behind us.
And just like that, it’s over.
I hear the whistle in my head more than I feel it. The final score doesn’t matter. All I can see is that moment—where I had it, where I knew what to do—
and didn’t.
I lace up my boots slower than usual today, my fingers pulling the laces so tight they bite into my skin. The locker room is quieter than it usually is. Even Carlos and Sebastian’s comedy tandem is at a standstill.
We were flying back in the fall. We weren’t just winning—we were scoring goals like we didn’t know how to stop. Now we’re clawing for points, settling for draws, and watching the table slide just out of our reach.
I know the lads are looking to me. They’re frustrated. Afraid.
So am I.
I’m the one who’s supposed to steady the ship, but I feel like I’m barely keeping it from going under.
It’s not the gaffer’s fault. Or Stan’s. Or the keeper’s. It’s mine. I’m the captain. That armband is a responsibility. You don’t get to share the blame. You take it. I’m supposed to steady the ship. Instead, I feel like I'm bailing water with my bare hands.
Addison keeps telling me I’m doing everything I can. That I don’t need to carry the pressure alone. But she doesn’t see the way the lads look at me after every match, like they’re defeated and waiting for me to fix it.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I can fix it.
And I know exactly what’s wrong with me.
It’s not mounting pressure or tactics.
It’s time.
It’s the fact that every match we play is one match closer to May. One match closer to the season ending. One match closer to Addison leaving.
It’s hard to have a love for the game when every win is a depressing reminder.
She was always planning to leave. I know that.
She was upfront about that before we even started up whatever it is we’re doing.
She didn’t lie. I wasn’t misled. I was even the idiot who said, sure, let’s make the most of the time we have.
I said that like it was easy. Like she wasn’t about to become my entire universe.
The one thing I can’t seem to outrun is that ticking clock.
But I try. I really fucking try.
I try to be everything everyone needs from me. The leader. The steady hand. But underneath it all is this panic that no one sees but me.
And the cruelest part is that the thing I've wanted my entire life is finally within reach.
Promotion.
The dream. The goal. The reason I've pushed myself for years.
The thing Henry and I used to talk about when we were kids kicking a ball around on a muddy pitch.
We're closer than we've ever been.
So why does it feel like every step toward it is taking me further away from everything else I want?
Because football has always been the centre of my universe.
Until Addison.
I stay out on the pitch after training ends.
The lads have filtered out towards the showers. It’s quiet out here. The cameras follow the herd.
They don't need footage of me sitting alone on a bench staring at grass.
I loosen my boots and look out over the empty pitch.
“Waiting for the grass to apologize?” Stan’s voice cuts through the quiet.
I sigh, not turning around. “Maybe.”
A second later, the bench dips beneath his weight.
“Want to talk about it?”
I stare forward. “Didn’t realize the post-training debrief included life advice now.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“But watching my captain unravel like a ball of yarn does.”
Stan settles beside me, elbows on his knees. For a while, neither of us speaks. The stadium just sits empty around us.
“Listen to me, Bradshaw,” he says, voice lower.
“I’ve followed this club since I was a lad.
I watched every game from the stands until I worked my way up through the club.
I feel this weight too.” He looks out over the pitch like it holds every good memory from his lifetime.
“I know I’m not good at letting people in, at sharing bits of myself.
I’ve always thought I could carry every load myself.
It nearly broke me. Don’t let it break you, Bradshaw. ”
I glance at him, surprised by the rare softness in his voice.
I shrug. “If we don’t get promoted, that is on me.”
“No.”
“I’m the captain.”
“And?”
I scoff. “That’s how it works.”
“No, that’s how you think it works.”
His voice stays annoyingly calm.
“You want to know what I think?”
I groan. “You’re going to tell me anyway, right?”
“Yeah.” Stan nods his head. “I think you’re trying to save something else. Something more than just this season.”
I freeze, heart pounding. He has no idea what he’s talking about, does he? He doesn’t know about Addison. He doesn’t know every match we play brings her one step closer to leaving for good.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Relax, Bradshaw,” Stan says. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t particularly care either. But I know that look.”
“What look?”
“You’re trying to fix what’s broken on the pitch because there’s something else you can’t fix. Maybe something you’re afraid of losing?”
I swallow hard, biting the inside of my cheek. How can he be so clueless and so intuitive all at once?
“You can’t control everything, Oliver,” Stan says. “Not the matches. Not the team. And definitely not whatever it is you’re holding on to so tight.”
“What do you mean?”
Stan sighs, pausing to choose his words carefully. “You’re pushing too hard, Oliver. You’re punishing yourself.”
“For the matches? They’re my fault.”
“Not the matches,” he says slowly. “Henry.”
That word hits me square in the chest. My head drops forward, elbows on my knees. I can’t find the words to say anything. I know I’ve been taking my frustration about Addison leaving out on the pitch, but I didn’t realize it’s been my feelings about Henry too.
That’s why this all feels so familiar. Because I’ve done this before.
I’ve loved someone and known, deep down, that I couldn’t save them. That no matter what I said or did or begged for, the end was written in stone.
I couldn’t stop Henry’s death.
And I can’t stop Addison from leaving.
It’s a different grief, but the same loss. The same instinct to hold on to everything else until my hands bleed.
That helplessness manifests with me forcing everything else around me, but failing at all of it.
“I know losing him changed you, Oliver,” Stan says. “Of course it did. How could it not? But you’ve been trying to rewrite that story on the pitch ever since. You can’t.”
I blink fast. Don’t cry. Not here.
“You can’t change what happened to him,” Stan says, softer now. “You can’t rewrite that story. You’ve spent years trying to.”
The words hit me like a punch, because I think part of me has always been trying to make the story hurt less. I’ve spent years trying to earn a different ending.
“But you can write something new,” Stan says. “Henry’s story is finished. But yours isn’t. You’re allowed to move forward, Oliver. You’re allowed to stop carrying that guilt.”
“But I was supposed to—”
“No,” Stan says, cutting in. “You were a kid, Bradshaw. You loved him. That was your job. And you did your job.”
I finally glance over at him. His eyes are steady, grounding.
His words hit me harder than any opponent ever could.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit.
He claps a firm hand on my shoulder. “You start by trusting the lads around you. Every one of us wants this just as much as you, but you can’t lead if you’re drowning. You don’t have to carry every bloody thing yourself. Sometimes letting go is the strongest thing a leader can do.”
I nod, but it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in days.
“Time to stop trying to rewrite old stories, Captain.”
He gives me a pointed look.
“Go write a new one.”
Then he disappears into the tunnel, leaving me alone with the words.
And for the first time in weeks, I wonder if maybe he's right.