CHAPTER SIX: THE WARNING WHISTLE

The door closes behind Noah with a click that sounds too controlled to be casual.

Liam doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

He knows it’s him — the way the air sharpens, the quiet drag of worn sneakers against tile, the electric pressure that settles in the room like weather turning.

“Coach.” Noah’s voice is calm, maybe too calm. “You asked for me.”

Liam doesn’t speak right away. He keeps his eyes on the report in front of him, though the words haven’t registered for minutes.

He can feel Noah’s stare. Direct. Intentional. It’s not defiance — not quite. It’s something far more dangerous.

Expectation.

“Close the door.”

Noah doesn’t move. “Already did.”

Of course he did.

Liam exhales. Then slowly lifts his gaze. “Sit.”

Noah walks in like he has all the time in the world, but he doesn’t sit. He leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Liam’s like he’s waiting for a punchline.

“I think we need to be clear,” Liam says.

“I’m all for clarity,” Noah replies. “Let’s hear it.”

The audacity of him — it should piss Liam off. Instead, it makes his pulse tick a little harder in his neck.

“This… thing,” Liam says. “Whatever’s going on between us—it stops here.”

A beat.

Noah blinks, slow. Then gives the smallest smile — not amused, not surprised. Just sad, maybe. Or worse—unchallenged.

“What exactly do you think is going on?” he asks.

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” Noah says quietly. “I don’t think I do. You look at me like you want to ruin me. Then you pretend I’m the one out of line.”

Liam doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because Noah isn’t wrong.

“You’re my player,” Liam says. “This isn’t a debate.”

“Then why are we having one?”

That stops him. A crack in the armor.

Liam steps away from the desk, like distance might steady his breath. “We’re not,” he says. “This is me drawing a line.”

“And this is me,” Noah says, “wondering why you only draw it when the door’s closed.”

Liam’s jaw tightens. “You keep this up, Carter, and I’ll bench you. No matter how good you are.”

Noah smiles, slow and sharp. “You’ve had every chance to do that. But here I am.”

The silence thickens. It's not tension anymore — it's recognition. Something quiet and devastating that neither of them can name.

Liam turns his back. “This conversation’s over.”

But Noah doesn’t leave. Not yet.

“You ever wonder,” he says, “if you want me quiet because I see you too clearly?”

Liam freezes.

Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move.

The door opens behind him, then closes again with a soft click that echoes louder than it should.

On the pitch

The afternoon burns hotter than forecasted.

Sweat glues shirts to backs. Players snap at each other between drills. Liam’s stricter than usual — every mistake becomes a talking point, every dropped pass punished with laps.

But it’s Noah he targets the most.

“Quicker, Carter.”

“That wasn’t sharp.”

“Eyes up. Focus.”

Noah doesn’t talk back, doesn’t even roll his eyes. He just plays harder. Tighter. Cleaner. Like he’s daring Liam to find something wrong.

By the third drill, even the assistants are glancing at each other.

Jonah leans over to Santi, voice low. “He’s riding Carter like he’s trying to break him.”

Santi shrugs. “Or trying not to.”

Liam hears it. Pretends he didn’t.

Later

Scrimmage. 7v7.

Noah scores three goals. Each one faster, meaner than the last. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just glances toward the sideline after the third — brief, unreadable.

Liam doesn’t react. But he feels it.

He ends practice early. Says the heat’s pushing them too hard.

Everyone knows it’s not about the weather.

Evening

The locker room clears slowly. Some players drift toward recovery. A few linger, swapping playlists and banter.

Noah stays behind.

He’s shirtless, towel slung around his neck, scrolling his phone like he’s not waiting for anything.

Liam walks past him, careful not to look. But he sees it anyway — the cut of his torso, the scar near his collarbone, the stillness that feels louder than noise.

He says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

Night

Liam’s apartment is dark except for the pale blue glow of his laptop.

He opens the practice footage. Skims through drills. Highlights plays. Tries to focus.

Then it lands on Noah.

Slow motion. A cut to the left. A pass behind the back. A look — not at the ball.

At the camera. Or whoever was behind it.

Liam pauses the screen.

His cursor hovers.

He shuts the laptop.

His phone buzzes once on the table.

Unknown number.

You’re good at pretending none of this matters.

Another buzz. Same number.

 But I know what you look like when you’re lying.

Liam stares at the screen.

He doesn’t know how Noah got his number.

But he knows exactly what the hell he's talking about.