Chapter 006: The Face-Off

AXEL.

As I sit alone on a bench in the locker room, I pick up a helmet and swing it from one hand to the other, feeling its solid weight in my grip. Tryouts are today, and whilst I know I’m ready physically, anxiety crawls just under my skin. I’ve never stepped onto a football field like this before—and the thought of screwing up, especially at a new school, doesn’t sit well. First impressions matter and I know my performance today could determine my place in the school's team.

I rise from the bench, my eyes drawn to the names etched into the metal tags on each locker across me. I let my fingers brush over them absentmindedly as I pass, reading each one in a quiet whisper.

I stop at the name on the final locker. Shane O’Connor.

The name sounds vaguely familiar—I’ve heard it before. Just as the thought settles, a deep voice sounds behind me.

“You’d love your name on one of those, wouldn’t you?”

When I turn around, there's a dark-haired, broad-shouldered guy glaring straight at me. It takes a second, but I recognize him. It's the same guy who stared me daggers on my first day of class. Shane.

But he’s not alone. Standing beside him are two others: one is dark skinned, tall and has his hair in locks, and the other is a blond with a jagged scar slicing across the side of his face.

Shane steps forward with his gaze fixed on me. “Where’d you say you were from again, green eyes?”

I feel a small surge of tension stir in my belly, but I shove it down. I’m not the scrawny kid from Ashbrae anymore. I meet his eyes. “I'm from south of ‘none of your damn business.’”

I try to step around him, but he moves in front of me quickly. He’s only a few inches taller than me, but the way he stands, like he owns the whole room, makes him feel bigger as his stare pins me in place.

“Show me your real eyes,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low growl.

For a second, my insides tense.

My eyes turned green in unnatural fashion the night I was marked, but no one knows that but me. Every morning since then, I’ve hoped they’d go back to normal, but they never have.

And now this guy—this punk—is staring right through me, asking to see my “real” eyes. How could he possibly know?

I tighten my grip on the helmet, feeling its weight shift as I imagine slamming it into his face and going down swinging with the other two if I have to. I feel my pulse pounding in my ears as anger starts to well in me.

“How about you get out of my way,” I retort, stepping forward, “before I make you.”

Still, he doesn’t move. He just watches me calmly, his eyes darting between mine like he’s reading something I can’t hide.

Then he says it again, softer this time. Not a threat, more like a plea.

“Show me your real eyes, Axel.”

It then dawns on me that he’s not just picking a fight; he knows something.

Still, I brace myself for a brawl, my breath now in shallow rasps as my grip tightens, bending the metal on the helmet.

But just then, we hear a voice from behind us.

“Boys.”

Every head in the locker room turns to meet Coach Phillips, the team’s personal trainer, standing in the doorway with a whistle dangling from one hand.

“A little pre-tryout introduction going on, is it?” he teases, striding in. The two guys flanking Shane step back as Coach places a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Come on, O’Connor. Give the new kid a breather, will ya?”

Shane shoots me one last look then turns to Coach. “Just sharing a few tips,” he mutters casually, before strolling off. His two shadows follow, tossing glances over their shoulders as they go.

Coach Phillips turns to me with his hands in his pockets, studying me from head to toe.

“I know today’s a big day for ya, kid,” he starts. “But remember—it’s just football, not war.”

He pauses, a small smirk now dancing on his lips. “Well, maybe it's a little like war. I mean, ten guys trying out for just two spots.”

He chuckles to himself, then grows serious again when he realizes I don't share the humor. “Still, it's just football. So calm your titties, get out there and give it ya best shot, alright?”

“Yes, Coach,” I reply.

“Good lad,” he pats me on the shoulder. And with that he turns and walks towards the next bench, bellowing instructions in his thick Aussie accent.

I shove thoughts of Shane aside as I settle down the bench closest to me. I'm strapping on a glove when the bathroom door behind me swings open. I glance over my shoulder just as a figure steps out, wrapped in a towel from the waist down.

The sunlight filtering through the window throws long shadows over him, but as he walks closer, his features become clearer—ginger hair, a firm jawline and a tanned skin. I recognize the face, but he speaks before I do.

“Hey, bud.”

I nod in reply, turning my attention back to my gloves.

He sits on the bench across from me. “You’re the new guy, right? Axel?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“Theo,” he says, holding out a hand. “Captain of the team.” I shake it firmly and for the first time our eyes meet.

I start to stand when his voice stops me. “I saw you walk into school with Hayley the other day.”

He holds my gaze for a moment. “You two… close?”

“Yeah. She’s a friend.”

His brow tenses just a little as his voice drops a notch. “Just a friend?”

I stand fully now. “We're good friends,” I answer, deliberately emphasizing the words, not even sure why. Then I give him a small nod as I make my way out of the room.

I’m almost at the door when his voice stops me.

“Did you… do this?”

I turn around to see him holding the mangled helmet—the one I’d twisted in my grip. The look on his face is a mix of disbelief and confusion.

“Uh, no… I met it that way. Here…in the room,” I lie.

He eyes the bent metal like it's a puzzle, his brows narrowing ever so slightly. When he looks back at me, there’s a glint of suspicion behind his calm.

But he smothers it with a shrug. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he mutters, casually tossing the helmet into the corner. “Good luck at tryouts, buddy.”

With that, he heads toward his locker without another glance.

For a second, my mind goes back to his photo in Hayley’s room, and how quickly she stashed it away. I make a mental note to ask her about that.

But for now, I try to steer my focus on what’s ahead: my first football tryout.

I take a long, slow breath, trying to ease the small nerves clawing at my stomach as I mutter lowly to myself:

You’ve got this, Ax. It’s just football. You’ve got this.