Chapter 11 Football Match Spectacle (Declan POV)
Walking away from Vivienne wishing things aren’t complicated so I can hold her by my side.
Uh…I should concentrate; a match is waiting for me.
Breath…1, 2, 3.
I held straight for the stadium which had it lights turn on, and my wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin.
"You ready for this?" Callum asks, tightening his boots beside me in the changing room. "First major match of the season. Headmaster's invited half of Yorkshire to watch."
"I'm ready." But my hands are shaking as I lace my boots. Not from nerves, from barely suppressed power. The heat cycle has technically passed, but its effects linger. Everything feels sharper, faster, more intense. My senses are dialed to maximum, and controlling them takes constant effort.
"Dec." Owen leans in, voice low. "Your eyes."
I blink hard, forcing the amber back. "Better?"
"For now. But mate, if you lose control out there…"
"I won't."
"You scored eight goals in yesterday's practice. Eight. Against our own defenders who know your moves. The other team doesn't stand a chance, and when you demolish them, people will notice."
"Then I'll hold back."
Callum snorts. "You've never held back in your life. Especially not on the pitch."
He's right. Football is the one place I can let some of my supernatural abilities bleed through without raising too many questions. Exceptional talent gets celebrated, not investigated. But there's exceptional, and then there's impossible.
"Just try to make it look human," Owen mutters as Coach Bennett enters for the pre-match talk.
Bennett's speech is standard, emphasize teamwork, watch for their striker's weak left side, maintain formation. I barely hear it. My focus is on the crowd gathering outside, on the scents filtering through the changing room's ventilation. Hundreds of humans. A few supernaturals scattered among them.
And somewhere in that crowd, Vivienne is watching.
The thought makes my wolf surge forward. I've been avoiding her for three days since the library incident, giving her space to process what Freya must have told her. But knowing she's out there, watching me play, makes every instinct scream to perform. To show her what I can do. To prove I'm worthy.
"Blackthorn Wolves!" Bennett shouts. "Let's show them what we're made of!"
We file out of the changing room, the roar of the crowd hitting like a physical wave. The visiting team, Sheffield Grammar, is already on the pitch, warming up. They look confident. Well-trained. Completely unaware they're about to be destroyed.
I scan the stands as we take our positions. Find Vivienne in the third row, sitting with Sophie and Freya. She's wearing a Blackthorn scarf, her dark hair pulled back, and when our eyes meet across the distance, something in my chest pulls tight.
The whistle blows.
I move.
The ball feels like an extension of my body. Every pass is perfect, every touch precise. I'm aware of all twenty-two players simultaneously, tracking their positions, anticipating their movements before they make them.
Thirty seconds in, I intercept a pass meant for Sheffield's midfielder. Three touches to beat their defender. One more to set up the angle. The keeper doesn't even see the shot until it's already in the net.
1-0.
The crowd erupts. My teammates mob me, but I'm already focused on the next play. Already calculating angles and probabilities.
"Christ, Dec," Kieran says as we reset. "Save some for the rest of us, yeah?"
But I can't save it. Can't throttle back the power singing through my veins. My wolf wants to hunt, to chase, to win, and football is the only outlet I have.
Sheffield kicks off again. I let them maintain possession for forty-five seconds, long enough that it doesn't look like complete domination, before Owen intercepts and sends the ball to Callum. He crosses it to me, and I'm already moving, already seeing the space where the ball will be.
Header. Top corner. Unstoppable.
2-0.
Eight minutes played.
Coach Bennett is shouting something from the sideline, probably telling me to calm down, but I can't hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. Can't focus on anything except the game and the scent of my mate in the stands and the primal need to prove myself.
Sheffield tries to adjust their formation. Drop an extra defender back. It doesn't matter. I'm faster than all of them, stronger, more aware. When their keeper punts the ball long, I'm already at midfield, reading the trajectory, positioning myself perfectly.
Chest trap. Turn. Three Sheffield players converging on me.
I spin past the first, nutmeg the second, shoulder-check the third just hard enough to create space. Their defender slides in for the tackle. I jump over him, my hang-time just slightly too long for a normal human but short enough that most won't consciously register it.
One-on-one with the keeper now. He's charging out, trying to cut down the angle. I wait until he's committed, then chip the ball over his head with surgical precision.
3-0.
Fifteen minutes.
"Declan!" Callum grabs my arm during the celebration. "Mate, you need to slow down. People are staring."
I glance at the stands. He's right. The crowd's excitement has shifted to something like confusion. This isn't normal dominance. This is something else.
"I'm trying," I say.
"Try harder. Because there are scouts here, and not the normal kind."
I follow his gaze to a section of stands where three men in dark suits sit apart from the general crowd. They're not cheering or reacting to the goals. Just watching. Taking notes.
My wolf recognizes what they are immediately. Supernatural. Probably pack representatives from other territories.
"Ignore them," I tell Callum. "Focus on the match."
But it's getting harder to focus. The exertion is burning off the lingering effects of the heat cycle, and without that pressure, my control sharpens. I can throttle back. Can play at merely exceptional levels instead of impossible ones.
Sheffield scores at the twenty-minute mark, a lucky deflection that catches our keeper wrong-footed. The goal seems to energize them, and they push forward with renewed confidence.
Big mistake.
I let them have possession, let them think they're finding their rhythm. Then, when their midfielder gets careless with a pass, I intercept. This time I don't shoot immediately. Pass to Owen, who sends it wide to Kieran. He crosses back to me, and I one-time it into the far corner.
4-0.
"That's more like it," Coach Bennett calls from the sideline. "Team play! Keep it up!"
But the damage is done. Sheffield's defense is broken, their confidence shattered. They know they can't stop me, and that knowledge makes them hesitant. Uncertain.
The rest of the first half is academic. I don't score again, but only because I'm consciously holding back. Focus on assists instead. Set up two more goals, one for Owen, one for Liam. By halftime, we're up 6-0, and Sheffield looks demoralized.
In the changing room, Bennett is ecstatic.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Hartley, that was the best half of football I've seen in twenty years of coaching. If you keep this up, we're looking at nationals. Maybe internationals!"
The praise makes my teammates shift uncomfortably. They know what I am. Know that "internationals" would mean scrutiny we can't afford.
"Just doing my job, Coach," I say, gulping water.
"Well, keep doing it. Second half, I want more of the same. Let's make this a statement win."
When he leaves to talk to the defenders, Callum corners me.
"Statement win?" he hisses. "Dec, you're making a statement, alright. You're announcing to every supernatural in Yorkshire that the Greyfang Pack Alpha is in peak form. That's not good."
"What do you want me to do? Play badly?"
"I want you to play human. Remember what that looks like?"
"It's been a while," I admit.
Owen joins us, his expression worried. "Those scouts in the dark suits? They're still here. And they're on their phones. Taking pictures."
"Of me?"
"Of all of us. But mostly you." He lowers his voice further. "Dec, what if they're hunter affiliated? What if they're documenting supernatural athletes for targeting?"
The thought makes my blood run cold. "Hunters wouldn't come to a school match. Too public."
"Edmund Ashford came to a public school to plant his daughter as bait," Callum points out. "Hunters go wherever their prey is."
"They're not hunters," I say, though I'm not entirely certain. "Wrong body language. Hunters watch with predatory assessment. Those men are watching with... interest. Like they're scouting talent."
"For what?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
The second half is more controlled. I score once more, a necessary goal to put the match completely out of reach, but spend most of my time facilitating for others. We win 9-1, and the crowd gives us a standing ovation.
Bennett is nearly in tears with pride. "Unbelievable! Hartley, you just made history. Four goals, three assists. The local news is calling it the most dominant individual performance in Yorkshire football history!"
"It was a team effort, Coach."
"Humble too! That's what I like to see." He claps me on the shoulder. "Get cleaned up. There's a reporter from the Yorkshire Post who wants a word."
I shower quickly, my mind racing. The men in suits haven't left. They're waiting near the exit, still watching.
The reporter, a young woman with a recording device, catches me as I'm heading out.
"Declan Hartley? Emma Walsh, Yorkshire Post. Can I get a quick statement about tonight's performance?"
"It was a good match. My teammates played brilliantly."
"You scored four goals and assisted three others. That's more than good. That's extraordinary." She consults her notes. "Scouts are saying they've never seen anyone move the way you do. Some are comparing you to Premier League players. How does it feel to have that kind of talent?"
"I'm just focused on helping my team win."
"There's talk of national team scouts coming to your next match. Any comment on that?"
My wolf bristles at the attention. "I'm flattered, but I'm concentrating on my A-levels right now. Football is important, but education comes first."
It's the right answer…modest, mature, boring enough that she'll move on to someone else. She thanks me and heads toward Owen for a different perspective.
I'm almost to the team bus when one of the suited men steps into my path.
"Impressive performance, Mr. Hartley."
Up close, he's clearly supernatural. The scent is unmistakable…wolf, but not from any pack I recognize. Older, more controlled than most. His suit is expensive, his demeanor professional.
"Thank you," I say carefully.
"My name is Marcus Thorne. I represent an organization that scouts exceptional athletic talent." He pulls a card from his pocket, offering it to me. "We host an invitation-only tournament every year. Very exclusive. Very... specialized."
The card is black with silver lettering. But it's not the text that catches my attention…it's the symbol embossed in the corner. Three interlocking crescents forming a triangle. An ancient werewolf symbol representing the pack alliance.
"What kind of tournament?" I ask, though I already know.
"Football, primarily. Though the rules are somewhat different from conventional play. The participants are all exceptional athletes like yourself." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Athletes who understand that sometimes, the game requires... special considerations."
"I'm not interested."
"You haven't heard the details. The winning team receives territorial rights across Britain. Substantial financial compensation. Recognition within certain communities." He taps the card. "This invitation is extended to your entire team, Mr. Hartley. The tournament takes place during the winter holidays. Think about it."
He walks away before I can refuse again, disappearing into the crowd.
I stare at the card, my thumb tracing the pack alliance symbol.
"What was that about?" Callum appears at my shoulder.
I show him the card. His face goes pale.
"That's the Culling invitation."
"The what?"
"The Culling. Underground supernatural tournament. Packs compete for territory rights. But Dec..." He takes the card, examining it closely. "The Culling only happens once every seventeen years. During the Silver Moon."
My blood turns to ice. "This year."
"Yeah. This year." Callum meets my eyes. "Someone's orchestrating this. The invitation, your heat cycle, Vivienne showing up, Edmund's trap. It's all connected."
"We need to tell the pack."
"We need to figure out who's behind this first. Because whoever invited us to the Culling knew exactly when and where to find you. Knew about your performance tonight before you even played." He hands back the card. "This isn't random, Dec. This is strategy."
We board the team bus in silence, but my mind is racing. The Culling. Territorial rights. The Silver Moon.
And somewhere in all of it, Vivienne and Edmund.
Too many pieces moving at once. Too many threats converging.
As the bus pulls away from the stadium, I see a figure standing apart from the dispersing crowd. Tall, older, watching with binoculars.
Even at this distance, I recognize him.
Edmund Ashford.
Watching his daughter's mate perform impossible feats on a football pitch.
Gathering evidence.
Building his case.
By the time we're back on campus, the match footage is already online. Local news sites are posting clips with headlines like "Blackthorn Prodigy Scores Four in Historic Win" and "Is This Yorkshire's Next Football Star?"
The videos show my goals from multiple angles. In most, I look fast but human. But there's one clip…a slow-motion sequence of my third goal…where my movements are too fluid. Where I'm in the air just slightly too long.
Someone in the comments section has already flagged it: "Anyone else notice something weird about his hang-time at 0:47?"
The comment has thirty-seven upvotes.
"We need to take that down," Owen says, reading over my shoulder.
"Can't. It's already been shared to four different platforms. Trying to suppress it will just draw more attention."
"So what do we do?"
"Nothing. Let it be. Most people will dismiss it as camera artifacts or weird angles." But I'm not convinced. And neither is Owen, judging by his expression.
My mobile buzzes. A text from Vivienne: That was incredible. Are you okay?
I stare at the message. She watched me play. Saw what I can do. And instead of fear or suspicion, she's asking if I'm okay.
I'm fine. Did you enjoy the match?
You were amazing. Like nothing I've ever seen.
That's what worries me.
Why?
Because people notice amazing. And not all of them have good intentions.
There's a long pause before her reply: Is that what the man in the suit wanted? The one who gave you the card?
You saw that?
I see a lot now. My hearing and eyesight are... different.
Right. Because she's awakening. Because her supernatural senses are developing. Because soon, she'll be just like me.
We still need to talk.
I pocket my phone and turn to find Callum watching me with concern.
"You're playing with fire," he says quietly.
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you're getting more attached to her every day, and we're running out of time before this all explodes."
"Three months," I remind him. "That's what the pack agreed. Three months to sort this."
"We might not have three months. Not with the Culling invitation. Not with Edmund watching. Not with your performance tonight broadcasting our existence to anyone paying attention."
He's right. I know he's right.
But I can't stay away from Vivienne. Can't keep pretending the bond doesn't exist.
"Tonight," I say.
"And if she runs?"
"Then at least she'll be making an informed choice."
Callum doesn't look reassured, but he doesn't argue further. Just claps me on the shoulder and heads toward his dorm.
I'm left standing in the courtyard, the Culling invitation burning a hole in my pocket, Edmund's surveillance fresh in my mind, and the certainty that tonight will change everything.