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THE NOISE IS ELECTRIC. Twenty-plus teams, at least a hundred lads running around in kits, coaches barking orders, whistles blowing, parents yelling from the sidelines, it’s chaos.
But it’s the best kind of chaos. It’s the one that makes my chest tighten in the best way, like adrenaline has finally found its place again. After weeks of physio, rest, aching silence and guilt and longing, I’m finally back. Finally playing. And fuck, I’ve missed this.
The ground beneath my boots, the sting of the wind on my face, the way my body just moves, like muscle memory never left. I’ve already played two matches today, and my legs feel it, but it’s the good kind of tired. The satisfying kind.
The last game was against Trinity Football Club. Ended 2-2. Luca scored both their goals. As much as he winds me up—and believe me, he does—he’s a solid player. Reads the pitch like a bloody book.
I make my way to one of the stands where they’re selling snacks and drinks and set downs crumbled up tenner. One of the lads working the stand gives me a nod, then hands over a bag full of water bottles. My fingers tighten around the handles, the weight nothing compared to the thoughts pulling me down lately.
“Connie,” a voice calls out.
I look up to see Cal jogging towards me. He’s in his TFS gear, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, and somehow still managing to look annoyingly laid-back. I nod my head.
He scratches a hand through his messy blonde hair. “I… uh, how’s your girl?”
The question hits me right in the ribs. How’s Carmen? Fuck if I know. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since I’ve held her, since I’ve spoken to her, since I’ve seen her.
Three weeks since I watched her disappear behind hospital doors and prayed that she’d come out okay.
I keep writing her. Every day. Haven’t heard a word back. But maybe she’s not allowed. That’s what I tell myself at least. “She’s good,” I say, voice a bit too flat. God, I hope she’s good.
Cal nods, clearly picking up on the weight behind the words, but doesn’t push. “Dylan’s here,” he says after a pause.
I blink. “That bastard’s here?”
“He plays for Phoenix City now.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. Of course he does. “That’s who we’re up against next.”
“If you pull that out-of-the-box goal like you did against us, you’ll be alright,” Cal jokes, bumping my shoulder.
I laugh under my breath. That goal was a screamer. Caught even me off guard. Then I assisted Felix’s goal a few minutes later. Clean game.
“You played good too, lad,” I tell him, nudging him back. He assisted both of Luca’s goals.
Before he can respond, a shout echoes across the lot. “Cal!”
We both glance over. Luca. Arms crossed, eyes locked on me like he’s waiting to start some Cold War shit from across the pitch.
“Ah, shit. I gotta warm up,” Cal mutters, heading off.
“Good luck,” I say, and he throws a wave over his shoulder.
Luca gives me one of those looks. The ones that say you’re not as good as you think you are. He’s been like that since we were twelve. Back then, we hated each other because we both wanted to be the best. Now? It’s different. Still not friends. Probably never will be.
I smirk. He shakes his head. And that’s that.
I head toward pitch number five, the one we’ve been assigned for our third game. The bag’s getting heavier with every step.
“Bless,” Jack groans in relief when I get to the bench. He snatches the bag like it’s oxygen and cracks open a bottle, downing it in seconds.
“What a muppet,” Hassan snickers. I grin, letting out a chuckle. Absolute muppet.
“Alright, lads!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise. We huddle up quick.
Carson snatches the water bottle out of Jack’s hands mid-sip and Jack glares at him like he’s just kicked his dick. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle my laughter.
“Grab a partner, make some passes, warm up!” Coach shouts.
“King Connie?” Jack grins at me, eyes shining with mischief.
I glance toward Felix. Our eyes meet. “I gotta talk to Felix,” I say. “Looks like you’re stuck with Carson or Hassan.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Gladly.” I toss him a wink and head toward Felix. “You’re partnered with me.”
“So I don’t get a choice?” he replies but there’s a lightness in his voice.
We start doing short passes, moving slowly across the pitch. Our steps are in sync like always. Same tempo. Same rhythm. It’s how we played during the school season.
“How’s Carmen doing?” I ask. It’s the only question on my mind.
He pauses, his jaw tenses slightly. Subtle, but I notice. “I don’t even know,” he finally says.
My chest tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hesitates, stopping the ball at his feet. “I saw her. Went with my parents. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.”
That’s all he says, but it’s enough. I picture her crying. Breaking. Pulling away from everyone. God, I hate that image.
“But… as in progress?” Felix continues, eyes flicking to mine. “They say she’s doing better.”
I exhale slowly, like it might slow my heartbeat. “Good.” My voice cracks just slightly. “That’s good.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do I.
We just pass the ball back and forth, the silence thick with everything we both want to say but don’t know how to.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I picture Carmen in her rehab centre, reading my letters. Holding them. Or maybe not reading them at all.
But still, I hope she knows I’m here. Still waiting. Still missing her. Still loving her.
The whistle blows. My heartbeat kicks into gear again. The kind of buzz only a match can give me.
Dylan’s standing on the other side of the pitch, right full-back, arms flexed, jaw tight. His eyes find mine instantly. Cold. Arrogant. I don’t look away.
I want to punch that smug smirk off his face. What a prick. But I keep my cool—for now.
Carson gets the ball first and sends it my way. I don’t hesitate. I get a clean first touch and take off down the pitch, weaving between defenders like the ball’s tied to my boots.
I spot Felix making a run and, without thinking, thread a sharp through ball between two Phoenix defenders.
Right as the pass leaves my foot, I veer ever so slightly into Dylan’s path. And slam my shoulder into him.
“Fuck off,” Dylan spits, stumbling back.
“Wanna get your ass beat like last time?”
“I’d like to see you try.” He shoves me in the chest, and I laugh dryly.
“Bet.” That’s all I say before my fist connects with his jaw. Quick. Clean. Controlled—but hard enough to knock him back a step.
Shouting erupts immediately. Boots thunder against turf. Teammates pour in from both sides like a storm, pushing, yelling, dragging us apart.
Jack’s shouting something. Carson’s got a grip on my shirt. I can see Hassan running towards us, leaving his goal post.
Then—the ref’s whistle nearly splits my ear, but I don’t flinch.
“The fuck are you doing?” Felix hisses once we’re yanked apart.
And that’s when it hits me—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Dylan gave Carmen. Doesn’t know that the day before she went to the hospital, Dylan gave her heroin.
I want to tell him. I need to. But it’s not my story to say. It’s Carmen’s.
“He deserved it,” is all I say, shrugging carelessly.
“Oi, you two!” the ref’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. He’s red in the face, storming toward us. “You both want a red card? Because that’ll mean you’re out for the rest of the tournament.”
“We’re good, ref,” Dylan answers quickly, straightening up and wiping his mouth like he didn’t just get banged in the face.
The ref narrows his eyes. “I better not see any foul play from either of you.”
He blows the whistle again and steps back.
As the game resumes, I turn my head toward Dylan, who mutters something under his breath I can’t quite catch. “Speak up.”
“Don’t get cocky, Connie,” he snaps. “You’re just a winger with a big ego.”
“Funny coming from someone who played in my shadow last year,” I taunt.
“Fucking dick.”
I lean in just a bit, a half-smirk tugging at my lips. “I own you on and off the pitch,” I taunt, low enough just for him to hear. “Remember that.”
Then I turn and jog back into position, not sparing him another glance.
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