CHAPTER FIVE: SIDELINE WATCH

The crowd roared. Not loud, not thunderous—yet—but steady, like a storm gathering in the distance.

Liam stood with his arms folded on the sideline, expression unreadable beneath the black team jacket zipped to his throat. His gaze was locked on the field, eyes tracking one player more than the ball itself.

Noah Hayes was everywhere.

He cut across the pitch like a blade, quick feet, sharp instincts, wild energy. The kind of player who drew eyes even when he wasn’t trying. But Noah was trying. At least today.

And Liam could feel it.

Not just in the way Noah played, but in the way he kept glancing toward the bench. Subtle. Quick. But intentional.

Like he was asking, Are you watching me?

Of course Liam was watching.

He always was.

Noah had started on the wing fast and fluid, frustrating the defenders within the first five minutes. Liam’s instructions had been clear: stay focused, keep wide, don’t overcommit. But Noah, as always, did things his own way.

And yet…

He made it work.

Liam hated how good he was. Not because of arrogance or ego but because every brilliant play made it harder to remember why the line between them mattered.

At the twenty-minute mark, Noah cut in from the flank, took on two defenders, and fired a low shot just wide of the post. The crowd gasped. Liam didn’t react.

But his heart was hammering.

He barked a few instructions to the back line, just to regain his composure.

A few players turned, nodding. Noah didn’t. He already knew Liam wasn’t talking to him.

Because talking to Noah felt dangerous now—like giving something away.

The game dragged on, a cagey, low-scoring affair. Tension grew, on and off the pitch. The midfield battle was brutal, the fouls frequent. Liam called for substitutions, reworked the shape.

Still, Noah kept his spot.

Because Liam couldn’t bring himself to pull him off the field.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

By the seventy-fifth minute, Noah’s shoulders were glistening with sweat, jaw clenched, socks grass-stained. He played with fury now pushing harder, faster, deeper.

And then—opportunity.

A fast break. Their striker lobbed a long diagonal ball behind the last defender. Noah sprinted. The keeper came out too late.

One touch.

Then another.

Then the net.

The stadium exploded.

Liam didn’t move. Not at first.

He just stood there, frozen, watching as Noah slowed, teammates piling onto him with shouts and slaps on the back.

Then just for a heartbeat Noah looked over their shoulders.

Not at the crowd. Not at the cameras.

At him.

Liam felt the weight of that gaze like contact. Like heat.

He gave the smallest nod. Barely there.

But Noah smiled like it meant everything.

After the final whistle, the locker room buzzed with energy. A hard-earned win. The team had grit today held the line, fought hard. Noah’s goal had been the decider.

Liam gave the post-match notes like always calm, measured, professional.

But when Noah walked past him towel around his neck, jersey slung over his shoulder—Liam’s voice caught in his throat.

Noah slowed. Just slightly.

The moment was short. Fleeting.

Their arms brushed.

Neither of them turned.

But Liam heard Noah’s voice as he passed.

Low. Just loud enough to slip beneath the radar of celebration.

“You’re still watching me.”

Liam didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

Because he was.