CHAPTER THREE: RED CARD

Liam didn’t ask Noah to stay behind.

He didn’t need to.

By now, it was routine. Practice would end, players would file out, and Noah would find some reason to linger — “extra touches,” “recovery drills,” or some vague claim about wanting to “work on positioning.”

Liam knew it wasn’t about drills.

And yet… he never told him to leave.

That night, the field was slick with a light mist, the kind that made the turf feel heavier beneath cleats. The sun had dipped just below the fence line, throwing a dusty gold glow across the grass. Everything felt quieter. Like the day was holding its breath.

Noah stood just outside the penalty box, resting a foot on the ball.

He didn’t move when Liam approached.

“You’re not here for extra touches,” Liam said.

Noah didn’t deny it. Just looked up, eyes unreadable. “You ever miss it?”

Liam paused. “Miss what?”

“Playing.”

That caught him off guard.

“I miss winning,” Liam said after a beat.

Noah nodded slowly. “I don’t think that’s the same thing.”

Silence stretched.

Liam took a step closer. “Is this what you do with all your coaches?”

That earned him a faint smile. “Only the ones who pretend they’re not looking.”

“You’re pushing a line, Hayes.”

“I know.”

The air between them felt tighter, heavier.

Liam stared at him really looked. The angles of his face were too sharp, too young. His eyes had that fire, that unfiltered hunger that hadn’t yet been dulled by injury, by failure, by life.

Liam had been like that once.

And maybe that’s why Noah terrified him.

“You think this is something you can play your way through?” Liam asked. “You think this won’t come back to bite you in the ass?”

“I think,” Noah said quietly, “you’re scared it already has.”

Liam took a full step back. “That’s enough.”

But Noah didn’t move.

And Liam hated the part of himself that wanted him to.

Back in the locker room, the tension finally cracked.

Liam had just finished reviewing training footage when he heard the door click open. He looked up. Noah again. Damp hair. Fresh shirt. Eyes steady.

“No boundaries anymore?” Liam asked.

Noah shrugged. “Didn’t realize this was sacred ground.”

“You don’t get to keep pushing.”

“I wouldn’t have to push if you’d just stop pretending.”

Liam stood. “I’m your coach. Not your... whatever the hell you think this is.”

Noah stepped closer. “You’re also a man. Last time I checked.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

Liam opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Noah waited.

He was close now too close. Liam could see the pulse in his throat, the small catch in his breath. He was steady, but not unaffected.

Neither was Liam.

“You’re twenty-one,” Liam said, quieter now. “You think everything is about wanting and getting. You don’t see the edge until it’s too late.”

“And you think standing still makes you safe?” Noah countered. “You think silence is control?”

The words hit harder than Liam wanted to admit.

He moved around the bench, putting space between them.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he said.

“I know what I feel,” Noah replied. “And I know what you’re trying not to.”

That was the moment.

The one Liam had been holding back for days. Weeks.

He turned fast, sudden and for a breath, he thought he was going to do it. Say something. Do something.

But he didn’t.

He looked at Noah, jaw clenched, chest tight — and said the only thing he could:

“This doesn’t happen.”

Noah didn’t flinch. “You already let it.”

And then he walked out.

No lingering glance. No dramatic pause.

Just silence.

Liam sat on the bench long after the door closed.

The room still smelled like shampoo and heat and something dangerously close to possibility.

He pressed his palms to his face.

Then to the back of his neck.

Noah was right about one thing.

This was already happening.

And Liam was already losing control.