Novel & Cerita The Football Player's Parallel Obsession

"I play pick up football with the boys in the park. Out in the open. Where everyone can see me. I didn't want the parents to think I was some predator." He should shut up. His explanation sounded lame to himself. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him. She didn't seem to see him as a threat and he certainly wasn't to a short redhead. "I guess you do look like both of those." "Both?" "A football player and a predator." A predator? Not since his days in the military and that had only been for the government. "I beg your pardon." She waved her hand. "Not my concern. I'm looking for Billy."

"I'll just bet. She was quite a woman." The three of us stood there together in an awkward sort of clump, a strange trio: the football star who had the world by the tail but who had lost the woman he'd loved; the driven doctor who'd realized his big dream but wasn't sure what came next . . . and the woman who we both loved.

“I still can’t believe a lot of these soccer players and sporting directors were involved in such twisted fantasies. I mean, who has orgy sex at a funeral home? That’s just sick.” Xavier, who has been quiet until now, lifts his head slightly. “I’ve seen a lot of things in this field. What I’ve learned is that when people have too much money and too much power, they get bored. They push the limits of what they can get away with. And when you’ve already bought everything, you reach for things you shouldn’t even be thinking about. It becomes about control. About seeing how far you can go. It’s less about pleasure and more about proving they can do it. It’s like a game to them.” Fiona leans into

One pundit leaned in, voice dripping with faux concern: “The leaked photos, the betting probe, the personal drama—it’s all coming at once. Hard to focus on football when your life is exploding on social media.” He muted it again. Watched the screen in silence. Every pass, every tackle, every glance toward the Ostin technical area felt personal, intimate, like the game was being played for him alone. Damien stood there—arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the floodlights, jaw set like stone. Marc knew that posture. Knew the tension in those shoulders. Knew Damien was thinking of him every time Westbridge lost possession, every time a pass went astray, every time the home crowd groaned.

Instead, it was just me, myself, and I tossing out old deodorant, notebooks of plays that have long since been revised, and team-owned gear to be disinfected and passed on to the next guy. It's an extremely underwhelming send-off, but it's right this way. Soccer had been my obsession for the majority of my life, but somewhere along the way, it had become my downfall. For that reason alone, I don't need it to be celebrated. Just like an alcoholic doesn't have a big drinking party to celebrate sobriety, I don't want a big party celebrating my attempts at rearranging my routines and patterns.

I asked and Henry opened his eyes once more, glanced at me before looking at the ceiling. "Because that's all I've ever known. When I was going through a lot, football was there," He responded and while I couldn't exactly relate to what he was saying I knew it must mean a lot to him because Henry didn't have any other hobbies he committed to. Infact, he never committed to anything, not even relationships and he was head over heels over Football. I nodded my head at him and he chuckled. "I sound pretty obsessed with it right?" He asked and I hit his shoulders playfully.

Instead, it was just me, myself, and I tossing out old deodorant, notebooks of plays that have long since been revised, and team-owned gear to be disinfected and passed on to the next guy. It's an extremely underwhelming send-off, but it's right this way. Soccer had been my obsession for the majority of my life, but somewhere along the way, it had become my downfall. For that reason alone, I don't need it to be celebrated. Just like an alcoholic doesn't have a big drinking party to celebrate sobriety, I don't want a big party celebrating my attempts at rearranging my routines and patterns.

“What the hell! Can’t you watch where you're g—“ Slowly, I look up, and my worst nightmare is standing right in front of me. Dylan Palmer. Star quarterback of the Riverside Ravens, the campus golden boy…more like my personal tormentor for the past two years. His tall frame towers over me, blocking the hallway like an immovable wall while his dark hair falls carelessly over his forehead. Those sharp blue eyes are already locked on me. “Well, well,” a slow grin spreads across his face, and the sound of his voice instantly draws more attention. Students begin gathering around us. Of course, they always do.

Nikolai There were very few things in life that genuinely surprised me anymore. Growing up around hockey players, rich people, politicians, businessmen, and professional liars had killed that part of me early. Most people were predictable once you gave them enough time. Patterns always appeared. Fear looked like fear. Jealousy looked like jealousy. Love looked like love. And obsession looked exactly like obsession. The problem was that people spent so much time pretending those things were something else entirely.

“We have a very specific, very memorable sixty seconds of history that involved my ass and at least four of my teammates’ dicks on your screen. I’d call that a foundation.” “I’d call that a traumatic event.” “Tomato, tomato.” “Those are the same word.” “That’s the joke, Sloane.” He pushed off the wall. One step closer. Not predatory. Not aggressive. Just — closer. The way a planet’s orbit decayed incrementally, each revolution a little tighter, a little nearer, until the math became inevitable. “Maren says you’re doing player features,” he said. “I’m pitching concepts. I haven’t been assigned anyone yet.”