Chapter 92 : Something Hot Twisted
HAYDEN’S POV:
The whistle blew, and everything narrowed.
The field, the ball, and the movement of bodies around me.
For a while, it worked.
Muscle memory kicked in, instincts taking over the way they always had. I ran, I passed, I pushed forward, forcing myself into the rhythm of the game like it was the only thing that existed.
It should’ve been enough. It used to be enough but today… It wasn’t.
Because no matter how hard I tried to lock in, there was something off. A split-second delay in my reactions. A flicker of hesitation where there shouldn’t be any.
And worse—him.
I didn’t need to look to know where he was. I could feel it. Every shift, every movement across the pitch, it was like my body tracked him without permission.
It pissed me off.
“Hayden, move!” a teammate shouted.
I snapped back, darting forward just in time to intercept a pass, my cleats digging into the grass as I turned sharply, pushing the ball ahead.
Good. That was good.
I surged forward, adrenaline finally kicking in, the crowd noise fading into a dull roar in the background. A defender closed in, but I cut past him cleanly, breath steady, focus sharpening…
“Pass!” It was Stephen’s voice that was clear, sharp, and commanding.
My grip on the moment slipped. For half a second, just half, I hesitated and it was enough. The defender recovered, knocking the ball away, breaking the play before it could turn into anything.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, jogging back.
“Hayden!” the coach barked from the sidelines.
I lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but my jaw was tight.
That shouldn’t have happened. That never happens.
I risked a glance across the field and there he was.
Already repositioning and focused like nothing had just gone wrong or he wasn’t the reason it had.
Something hot twisted in my chest.
The game pushed on.
Minutes blurred together, each one heavier than the last. We played well, better than most games this season, actually. The passes were sharp, the formations tight, and Stephen… Stephen was everywhere.
Intercepting plays, setting up chances, and moving like he was completely in control of the field.
It was… irritating. No…worse than that. It was distracting.
“Stay on your man!” someone shouted.
I pivoted, tracking back just in time, sliding in to block a shot. The ball ricocheted off my leg, bouncing out of bounds.
The crowd reacted, a mix of cheers and groans.
I pushed myself up quickly, brushing grass off my hands, breathing a little harder now.
“Get your head in the game,” I muttered to myself.
But it was already in the game. That was the problem. It just wasn’t… steady.
The first half ended 0–0.
We regrouped on the sidelines, the coach pacing in front of us, his expression tight.
“This is not bad,” he said, voice sharp. “But it’s not enough. You’re hesitating and you are giving them space they shouldn’t have.”
His gaze landed on me.
“And you….what the hell is going on with you today?”
I clenched my jaw. “Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like,” he snapped. “You are second-guessing plays you would normally execute without thinking.”
I didn’t respond.
“Scouts are watching,” he added, quieter now but no less intense. “You don’t get opportunities like this twice.”
My chest tightened. “I know.”
“Then play like it.”
The whistle blew again before I could say anything else.
It was the second half. This is where it counts.
I stepped back onto the field, rolling my shoulders, forcing everything else down.
No distractions.
For a while… it worked.
I pushed harder this time, more aggressive, cutting through defenders, forcing plays, refusing to hesitate.
I took a shot twenty minutes in, it was clean, powerful…but it was blocked.
I swore under my breath, frustration building again.
“Again!” a teammate shouted.
We pressed forward, relentless now, but something just… wasn’t clicking and then…It happened.
A mistake, not even a big one. A missed mark. A gap left open for just a second too long but at this level… that’s all it takes.
They broke through our defense fast.
I sprinted back, heart pounding, trying to close the distance, but I was a step behind.
The shot went off. The net rippled.
It was silent and then there was noise which was loud.
1–0.
I stopped, hands on my hips, staring at the ball in the net as I could will it back out.
“Reset!” I shouted. “We’ve got time!”
But it didn’t feel like it.
We played the remaining minutes hard, desperate, even. Pushing, pressing, trying to claw our way back.
Stephen set up two solid chances which he both missed and when the final whistle blew…That was it.
It was Game Over. 1–0. We lost.
I stood there for a second, chest rising and falling, the weight of it settling in slowly.
Then the noise started again, voices, movement, everything rushing back in at once.
“Unbelievable,” someone muttered.
“Should’ve had that.”
“We played better than them.”
It didn't matter.
We still lost.
“Hayden.”
I stiffened. It was the coach. I turned slowly, already knowing what was coming.
“What was that?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.
“I…”
“Don’t,” he cut me off. “Don’t give me excuses. I’ve seen you play better than that on your worst day.”
My jaw tightened.
“You hesitated. You lost focus and it cost us.”
I didn’t argue. There was nothing to argue.
He shook his head, disappointment clear. “That’s not how you get noticed. That’s how you get overlooked.”
The words hit harder than they should have or maybe exactly as hard as they were meant to.
He turned away, already moving on to talk to someone else and that’s when I saw it.
The scouts. They were standing just off the sidelines, talking and laughing lightly, and in front of them was Stephen.
My chest tightened instantly.
He looked… composed and calm.
One of the scouts clapped him on the shoulder, saying something I couldn’t hear.
Stephen nodded, a small smile on his face.
Something in me snapped.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I turned away. I couldn’t watch that.
I walked fast. Off the field, past the sidelines, ignoring the voices calling out, ignoring everything.
I just kept going.
Past the locker rooms, past the buildings. Until the noise faded and the only thing left was the sound of my own breathing.
The trees came into view before I even consciously registered where I was heading.
The forest.
I pushed deeper in, boots crunching against dirt and leaves, the air cooler, quieter.
My chest felt too tight. My head is too loud.
I needed….something, anything. I stopped when I found a tree. For a second, I just stood there, staring at it.
Then…..I hit it.
My fist slammed into the bark, the impact sharp and immediate. Pain shot up my arm. I didn’t stop.
Again and again and again. Each hit harder than the last, frustration pouring out of me in raw, uncontrolled bursts.
“Fuck!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the trees.
I hit it again and again.
Until my knuckles burned, until my breathing turned ragged, until there was nothing left but the hollow echo of everything sitting in my chest.
I staggered back slightly, dragging a hand through my hair, pacing once before stopping again.
It wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t enough.