CHAPTER 004

OLIVER

As Oliver left the training room, he gave a brief wave to a few of his teammates. Some forced a polite smile in return, while others ignored him entirely, keeping their eyes glued to their lockers. Oliver let his hand drop. 

Sure, he had pushed them hard during practice today, but it wasn’t that bad, was it?

He didn’t have time to wonder for long, as his phone suddenly began to vibrate in his hand. A familiar dread settled in his gut the moment he looked down at the screen.

Father.

Oliver groaned quietly to himself. He couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting the call after their performance in last night’s match, but he had naively hoped his father might wait a little longer before reaching out to tear him down.

Taking a deep breath, he slid his thumb across the screen and pressed the phone to his ear.

“You seem determined to embarrass me, huh, Oliver?”

The cold voice came through the speaker without a single greeting.

Oliver swallowed hard, stepping into a corner by the corridor. “It was just a friendly match, Father. We were testing out new tactical formations, and—”

“A friendly match?” his father interrupted, his tone an icy sneer. “There is no such thing as a friendly match when you wear that armband, Oliver. You represent this family. You represent my legacy. And you sat there on that pitch and let a sloppy squad run circles around you.”

“They didn’t run circles around us!” Oliver defended himself, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the phone. “It was a close game, but we made a few minor mistakes in the backline—”

“You lost to a boy who treats this sport like a fucking joke,” William snapped, cutting him off once again without a trace of mercy. “You let Rafael Costa humiliate you in front of millions of people. Do you have any idea how weak that makes you look? How weak that makes me look?”

“Rafael is one of the best players in the world!” Oliver pleaded, desperate to make him see reason. “I did everything I could out there—”

“Your best is clearly failing, Oliver.”

The finality in his father’s voice sent a chill down Oliver’s spine.

“I won’t sit back and watch you ruin everything I built,” William continued coldly. “I’m going to send one of my men to check on you during the next match. If you don’t win, you won’t like what I’ll do, Oliver. And make sure you beat that stupid Brazilian boy next time or I’ll take care of him for you.”

Oliver’s blood ran cold.

He wasn’t blind to his father’s many flaws. He hadn’t been back then, and he certainly wasn’t now. In truth, Oliver had once been a young, eager player who simply loved the game for the pure joy of it. But he could never be that innocent little boy again.

Years ago, he had a good friend who also played football, a boy he loved competing against. They had played a match against each other in high school, and when Oliver lost, he hadn't even been upset. He had just been happy to play.

Then… the boy vanished.

From one day to the next, he was nowhere to be found. The boy’s entire family suddenly moved away, and Oliver never heard from him ever again. Though his stonehearted father had refused to admit to anything, Oliver knew the truth. 

His father had orchestrated the entire thing just to eliminate what he viewed as a problem.

'Please don’t hurt Rafael,' Oliver silently begged in his head, as terror gripped his heart. 'Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him.'

“I’ll win the next match,” Oliver said quickly, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “And I’ll beat Rafael. You don’t need to hurt him.”

“Prove it,” his father sneered, and the line went dead.

Oliver slowly lowered the phone, staring blankly at the dark screen.

This wasn’t the first time he had considered running away from it all. Why did he have to play and constantly deal with his father’s relentless dictatorship? Why did he keep putting himself through this nightmare?

Other than the simple fact that he had nothing aside from football?

It was the only thing he had ever been allowed to know. Who was he without a ball at his feet? Who was he without the sport his father had chained him to?

Oliver let out a shaky sigh. He wiped his hands against his sweatpants, picked up his gym bag, and turned around to walk right back into the training room he had just left.

He couldn’t lose the next game. He wouldn’t.

>>•>>•>>•

[A WEEK LATER…]

[USA vs Argentina 🇺🇸🇦🇷]

“The United States have done it! Their captain, Oliver Hayes, has delivered exactly the response his team needed after last week's disappointing defeat. You can certainly see shades of his father, William, in him tonight, though some might argue he was a touch too aggressive. Love it or hate it, he's won the game.”

The final whistle had blown over ten minutes ago, but the high-voltage noise of the stadium still hummed in Oliver’s ears like static.

He felt hollowed out—drained mentally, physically, and emotionally. His body ached from ninety minutes of relentless running, but the weight in his chest was far heavier than physical fatigue.

The game had been a brutal affair. Looking back on those ninety minutes, Oliver barely recognized himself. He had been so... so angry. A dark rage had consumed him from the moment he stepped onto the turf, driving him to run until his lungs burned and his muscles screamed. 

That had never happened to him before. He had always been the composed anchor of his team.

Now, standing under the glare of the media room lights, he fought with everything in him to keep a completely blank face.

He knew he couldn't break character. Not when his eyes caught a subtle movement near the back of the room. Standing there in a sharp suit was Wyatt—his father’s loyal assistant—watching him like a hawk.

“Oliver, congratulations on the win,” a reporter opened, thrusting a microphone toward him. “You seemed much more aggressive tonight. Was that a deliberate change in your approach?”

Oliver stared into the flashing lenses. “Football is a physical sport,” he answered flatly. “If someone takes it personally, that's their problem.”

Another journalist leaned forward. “Many people have already started comparing you to Rafael Costa after both of your recent performances. The two of you have become one of football's biggest rivalries. Do you have a message for him before your next meeting?”

At the sound of Rafael’s name, Oliver's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His chest burned with a sudden ache.

“...Pass,” Oliver uttered tightly.

The reporter blinked, but before anyone could press the matter, a female journalist called out from the front row.

“Captain Hayes... when you step onto the pitch, what is your goal? What drives you every time you play?”

For the first time all afternoon, Oliver hesitated.

The room seemed to fall away, the noise dimming into a distant murmur. His eyes drifted slowly across the crowded room, travelling over the sea of cameras until they landed briefly on Wyatt.

The assistant stood silently with his hands folded in front of him. Just for a second, Oliver's resolve flickered.

Then, he slowly tore his gaze away, squared his broad shoulders, and looked into the central camera lens. 

His voice was cold as he responded, “...Winning.”