Chapter 8

Ethan

 

The scent of damp grass and winter mud always clears my head.

Today, however, the air at the Westbridge United Training Centre feels thick with hostility. I strap my shin guards on, pulling my black socks up over my calves with slow, deliberate movements. My fingers brush the silver ring resting against my chest underneath my training top.

“He can come after my jersey all he wants,” my own voice echoes in my head from last night. “But the moment he brings you into this… he crosses a line.”

I walk out onto the pristine training pitch. The morning sun cuts through the London fog, illuminating the sidelines.

My gaze instantly drifts toward the tactical dugout.

Maya is standing there. She is back in her professional attire, a tailored navy coat, her hair pinned up, holding her digital tablet. But she isn't looking at her screen. Her dark eyes are locked onto me, tracking my movements with quiet intensity.

She spent her first night under my roof last night. We didn't speak after we argued about her suitcases, but knowing she was asleep just down the hall changed the entire atmosphere of my penthouse. The museum felt less empty.

"Alright, listen up!" our manager shouts, clapping his hands together. "Eleven-on-eleven match simulation. First team against the reserves. Keep it sharp, keep it clean. No reckless tackles."

I jog onto the pitch, taking my position as the central striker for the starting eleven.

Directly across from me, wearing the fluorescent bib of the opposition, is Julian Vance.

The kid looks at me, a cocky, insufferable smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks past me toward the dugout, deliberately winking at Maya. Ice floods my veins. The text message he sent her last night flashes across my mind, fueling a cold, ruthless focus inside my chest.

"Let's see if you can keep your hands to yourself today, captain," Julian sneers as he jogs past me, keeping his voice low. "Or is your mental state still fracturing? I saw the blogs. She went home alone last night before the club had to bail you out."

I don't say a word, I don’t need to. An amateur reacts with his fists. An elite professional destroys his rival with the ball.

The whistle blows. The simulation begins.

The reserve team plays aggressively, trying to feed the ball to Julian to prove he deserves my starting spot. Five minutes in, the ball finally reaches Julian. The smug grin returns to his face. He thinks this is his moment.

Before he can execute the move, I am already there.

I sprint back from my forward position, reading his body language perfectly. I drop my shoulder, sliding into a flawless, razor-sharp tackle. My boot sweeps the ball cleanly away from his feet before his laces can even touch it.

Julian loses his balance, crashing hard onto the damp turf with a loud grunt.

I sprint back onto my feet instantly, capturing the loose ball. I don't give the reserves time to recover. I drive forward, pushing the ball into open space. Julian scrambles up, his face twisted in humiliated rage as he chases after me.

"Cross!" he yells, lunging into a desperate, reckless tackle from behind.

He wants to clip my ankles. He wants to injure me.

But I am already three steps ahead. I feel him closing in behind me. At the last second, I drag the ball across my body with the sole of my boot and spin away. Julian commits to the tackle too early, sliding straight through the mud while I accelerate into open space.

The training ground goes silent. A few of the reserve players let out a collective gasp.

I cushion the dropping ball with my chest and let it fall into my stride. One clean swing of my right foot sends it screaming toward the top corner. The goalkeeper doesn't even move. The ball slams into the net, and for a heartbeat, the training ground falls completely silent.

I don't celebrate. I don't cheer. I turn around slowly, walking past Julian, who is still sitting in the mud,and panting heavily. I stop right in front of him, looming over him as the steam rises from my heated skin into the cold morning air.

"You're fast, Vance," I say, my voice a flat, dead calm whisper that carries straight to his ears. "But you're predictable. Focus on your game. Not my woman."

Julian's eyes widen, his jaw tightening in pure, exposed shock. He didn't think I knew about the text.

I don't wait for his reply. I turn my back on him and jog toward the center circle, ready for the next play.

As I run, I glance back toward the sidelines. Maya is still standing by the dugout. A small, almost imperceptible nod of approval passes over her features, her dark eyes flashing with something that looks suspiciously like respect. She certainly realises I applied what she's been teaching me.

The media thinks I am a ticking time bomb. Julian thinks I am breaking, but for the first time in weeks, I have beaten him without losing myself.

Maya slips her tablet under her arm and starts toward the tunnel. Marcus intercepts her halfway.

He leans in.

I can’t hear a single word, but I don’t need to.

Maya stops dead.

Even from this distance, I watch the colour drain from her face.

Slowly…, she turns to look at me.

Whatever Marcus whispered, changed something.