Chapter 19 - The Clash of Kings of Mthland High 

(Joseph’s POV)

The game loomed that evening. The stadium lights buzzed, their low hum syncing with the violent thud of my heart against my ribs. 

The air in Mthland was heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and the electric charge of five thousand screaming fans. This was the big one. Mthland High versus Greenland. The rivalry that turned quiet neighbors into enemies for four quarters.

I stepped into the huddle, the sweat already stinging my eyes under the heavy plastic of my helmet. "Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Set... hut!"

The ball snapped into my palms, the familiar leather grip feeling like an extension of my own skin. I dropped back, the world turning into a blur of spinning jerseys and thudding bodies. I saw my opening. I stepped into the pocket and delivered a laser-focused throw to Miller, our wide receiver, who hit the touchline with a grace that made the crowd erupt.

"That's it! Move it!" I roared, pumping my fist as I ran downfield to set the next play.

As I lined up, I couldn't help but steal a glance toward the front row of the bleachers. There she was. Trish wasn't just sitting there like a "charity case" or a bored guest; she was on her feet, her knuckles white as she gripped the railing. When our eyes locked for a split second, she let out a sound I never thought I’d hear from her.

“COME ON, JOSEPH! DRIVE IT HOME!” she screamed, her voice piercing the student section, shouting with pure excitement even though she barely understood what was happening on the field.

A grin tugged at my mouth. I felt like I was ten feet tall. Every snap, every yard, every bruising hit I took was for her. I wanted to show her that I wasn't just the boy who made mistakes in the kitchen; I was a king on this turf.

But by the middle of the third quarter, the humidity began to take its toll. Greenland’s defensive line was massive, and they were playing dirty, targeting my ribs every chance they got. 

I was struggling to keep the pace, my breath coming in jagged, burning gulps. My vision blurred at the edges as I wiped a mix of sweat and grime from my forehead.

"You're slowing down, Roland," a voice hissed in my ear.

I turned to see CHRISTIAN VANE trotting past me. He was the number called unpredictable for a reason. He had the talent, but he lacked the soul. His British accent was like a jagged blade in the middle of a street fight.

"Shut up and run your route, Vane," I snapped, my chest heaving.

"Why bother? You’re playing like absolute shit, mate," he sneered, leaning in so the refs couldn't see his lips moving. "Maybe you’re too distracted by the little orphan in the stands. Does she cry like that when you're 'looking after' her at home? Or is she just another one of your dogs?"

The world didn't just turn red; it went white. The sound of the crowd vanished, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

"What did you say?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

“I said she’s a pathetic charity case, and you’re a joke for letting her hover around you. Is she your project now, or just another girl you pity? “Typical Joseph Roland. You can’t help using another poor girl, can you?”

I didn't let him finish. I lunged, my shoulder connecting with his chest with enough force to lift him off his feet. We hit the turf in a chaotic mess of padding and fury. I didn't care about the game. I didn't care about the scouts. I gripped his facemask and hammered my fist into the side of his helmet.

"Say it again! Say it again and I’ll kill you!" I roared.

The field was suddenly swarmed, the entire school thrown into chaos. "Roland! Get off him!" Coach yelled, but it took three offensive linemen to pry my fingers loose from Christian’s jersey. Even Greenland players were jumping in, trying to protect the "peace," while the stands became a riot of confusion.

Ten minutes later, the adrenaline had soured into a cold, sickening dread. I was sitting in the principal’s office, the silence of the administrative wing a sharp contrast to the stadium. Christian sat across from me, a smug, bloody grin on his face as he wiped his lip.

Principal Mrs. Dante slammed a folder onto her desk. "Enough! I have never seen such a disgraceful display of ego on that field. You represent Mthland High, not some back-alley fight club!"

"He started it, Mrs. Dante," Christian said, his voice smooth and innocent. "I was just giving him a bit of tactical feedback."

"Liar!" I barked, half-rising from my chair. "You know damn well what you said!"

"Sit down, Joseph!" Mrs. Dante shouted. "I don't care who started it. You both finished it. You are suspended from all football activities: games, training, everything; for three weeks. And you will serve three weeks of daily detention starting tomorrow."

The walk back home was a blur. I didn't look at Trish as she followed me out, but I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck. When we walked into the mansion, I slammed the front door hard enough to make the crystal vase on the foyer table rattle.

Mom rushed out of the kitchen, startled. “Joseph?” Her eyes flicked to the door. “Why did you shut the door like that? Did something happen?”

I couldn't even look at her. I was vibrating with a rage that felt like it was going to tear my skin open.

"Ask her," I muttered, gesturing vaguely at Trish before storming up the stairs.

I made it to my room, ripped off my grass-stained jersey, and sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Trish walked in, closing it softly behind her.

"He tried to injure me, Trish," I said before she could even speak. My voice was a raw, jagged mess. "He hates me because I took his spot back on the team. He’s been on my back for a year, but today... he went for my knee on the second play. He wanted me out. Permanently."

Trish walked over and stood between my knees, looking down at me. "Joseph, it was a high-speed game. Are you sure? It's so physical out there, accidents happen."

"Accidents?" I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. 

“Do you know what he said to me out there?” I asked.

I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to repeat what he’d said about Trish.

A familiar pressure burned behind my eyes. She reached for me, her hands cool against my skin, lifting my face until I had no choice but to look at her.

"Sit down, Joseph. Please."

I sat, my strength finally failing me. She sat on the bed and guided my head down until it rested on her lap. She began to run her fingers through my hair, her touch a sharp contrast to the violence of the night.

“He didn’t take your place,” she said. “He’s just threatened. By you.

"I thought I was going to lose it," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper against her thigh. "I thought I was going to be just like my father. “Just a man who destroys everything because he can’t hold himself together.”

"You're not him," she said firmly. "You're Joseph. And you're home now. So… rest, okay?"

I closed my eyes, the rhythm of her breathing slowly calming the storm in my chest. For three weeks, I’d be a stranger at school, a boy on detention, a "disgrace" to the team. But right here, in the quiet dark of my room with Trish’s hands in my hair, I didn't feel like a disgrace. I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. 

I drifted off to sleep on her lap, the echoes of the "Come on, Joseph!" still ringing in my head like a promise.