Chapter 13 The Captain's Fear
Noah POV
I don’t sleep.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling like it might confess something before I do. The fan hums. My phone is face-down on the nightstand like a loaded weapon. Every time it vibrates even when it doesn’t I feel it in my chest.
I tell myself I won’t think about him.
I do anyway.
Elias Moore.
The name settles in my mouth like something dangerous. Sweet. Sharp. Impossible to swallow.
I scrub a hand over my face and sit up. My room smells like detergent and sweat and something else I don’t want to name. His skin. The memory of it. The way my body still reacts like it hasn’t gotten the memo that this is a mistake I already made twice.
Crossed lines.
That’s what I call it when I’m trying to sound reasonable. Controlled. Like a captain who knows what he’s doing.
The truth is uglier.
The truth is that I think about him when I’m not supposed to think about anything at all.
\---
Morning comes whether I want it to or not.
Practice waits for me. The team waits for me. The version of myself everyone recognizes—the one who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t look back—pulls itself together like armor.
I shower fast. Cold water. I welcome the shock. I need it. I need something to cut through the fog in my head, the ache low in my chest that doesn’t belong there.
I dress carefully. Neutral. Safe. The clothes I’ve always worn to make sure no one looks too closely.
In the mirror, I look fine. Better than fine. Captain. Leader. Golden boy.
No cracks.
But I know where they are.
\---
The field smells like grass and rubber and routine. My cleats hit the ground with familiar weight. This is where I’m supposed to be good. This is where everything makes sense.
“Morning, Cap,” someone calls.
I nod. Clap my hands. Start drills. My voice comes out steady, sharp. Commands snap into place like they always do.
Run. Pass. Focus.
My body knows what to do even when my mind doesn’t.
But then I look up.
And there he is.
Not close. Not even paying attention to me. Just crossing the quad beyond the fence, skirt catching the light, chin high like the world owes him space and he’s taking it.
Elias doesn’t look back.
He never does.
My foot stutters mid-step.
“Cap?”
I shake my head, bark an order, pretend nothing happened. The guys don’t question it. They never do. That’s the thing about being the captain people trust the version of you they’re used to.
I run harder than I need to. Push until my lungs burn. Until the sound of my own breath drowns out everything else.
But it doesn’t erase him.
Nothing does.
\---
Masculinity is a performance you don’t realize you’re rehearsing until you forget your lines.
I’ve known the script forever. Don’t look. Don’t linger. Don’t want the wrong things. Want the right ones. The approved ones.
I have a girlfriend.
Everyone knows that.
She texts me a good-luck message before the scrimmage. A heart emoji. I stare at it longer than I should. It feels like proof I can hold up if someone ever asks.
See? I’m normal. I’m fine. I’m exactly who you think I am.
I type something back. Safe. Affectionate. Automatic.
Then I delete a draft I didn’t mean to write.
\---
By the time practice ends, my body is wrecked and my head is worse.
In the locker room, the guys joke and shove and talk about weekend plans. I laugh at the right moments. I keep my towel low. I don’t let my eyes wander.
This is the part no one sees the constant vigilance. The way I police myself even when no one’s watching.
Especially when no one’s watching.
I catch my reflection in the metal locker door. My jaw is tight. My shoulders are tense. I look like someone bracing for impact.
Because I am.
\---
Reputation isn’t just what people say about you.
It’s what they expect.
Captain. Straight. Stable. Predictable.
I’ve built my life on that expectation. The future everyone assumes for me fits neatly into it graduation, pro prospects, the right kind of success.
Elias doesn’t fit.
And that’s what terrifies me.
He doesn’t ask permission to exist. He doesn’t soften himself to make anyone comfortable. He doesn’t hide.
And when I’m with him when I want him I don’t recognize myself.
I think about his voice, low and calm, like he already knows the ending. The way he looks at me like I’m not a title or a shield or a lie I keep repeating until it sounds true.
He sees too much.
I want him anyway.
\---
My phone buzzes while I’m tying my shoes.
I don’t have to look. I know.
I don’t answer it. Not right away. I shove the phone into my bag like distance might weaken the pull.
It doesn’t.
All day, the fear sits with me. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just constant.
Fear of being seen.
Fear of being known.
Fear that if I let myself stop running, I won’t want to start again.
Because what if this isn’t a phase?
What if it isn’t curiosity or confusion or stress?
What if this is me?
The thought lands hard. Final.
I don’t have a name for it yet. I don’t want one. Names make things real.
And I am not ready for real.
\---
That night, alone again, I pick up my phone.
I don’t text him. I don’t need to. The connection hums between us anyway, unspoken and alive.
I tell myself I’ll end this.
I tell myself I’m in control.
I tell myself I’m strong enough to walk away.
But fear isn’t the absence of desire.
It’s the proof of it.
And no matter how much I try to bury the truth under discipline and silence and rules I never chose, it keeps rising persistent, undeniable.
Elias isn’t chasing me.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the thing I’m most afraid of isn’t losing my reputation.
It’s the quiet, terrifying certainty settling into my chest:
I don’t know how to stop wanting him.