Peter Soccer

Chapter 8

Since that game, everything had started to fall into place for Peter. A few matches later, it was obvious to everyone—he wasn’t just keeping up anymore. He was different. The closest thing they’d seen to Preston.

Those were Ace’s exact words after Peter buried a last-minute equalizer in the previous game .

Winter break was creeping up fast. Two games left before they all went home for the holidays.

---

*The last training session before the Lone Star Elite match in Texas.*

The main session was over. Coach had called it “light technical work only,” which everyone knew meant _no tackling, no heroics, no idiots trying to prove something._

Preston never listened to that part.

“Last one to the penalty spot buys coffee for the week,” he said, dropping a ball at the halfway line and grinning at Peter. Sweat was already soaking through his training top, but he was bouncing on his toes like they’d just walked out.

Peter shook his head, but he was already lining up.

“You’re gonna regret challenging me when I’m fresh.”

“I only challenge you when you’re fresh. Makes beating you more fun.”

They took off. It was stupid, pointless, and exactly the kind of thing they’d been doing ever since the dressing room started whispering about who was actually better. Peter got a half-step lead, but Preston’s longer stride ate it up near the edge of the box. Both lunged for the ball at the same time.

Peter pulled up to avoid the collision. Preston didn’t.

His studs bit into the damp turf, his ankle rolled, and he hit the ground with a thud that was too solid to be a dive. The ball rolled away, forgotten.

“Preston!” Peter was at his side in two seconds, heart hammering.

Preston was already sitting up, forcing a laugh, one hand gripping his ankle, the other waving off Coach, who’d turned to look.

“I’m good! I’m good! Slipped, that’s all. Pitch is soft today.”

Coach jogged over, face unreadable.

“On your feet. Walk it off.”

Preston used Peter’s shoulder to get up, putting way too much weight on him and none on his right leg. He took three steps, winced, then smoothed it into a casual jog.

“See? Fine. Just needed to reset it.”

Peter frowned, unease twisting in his gut.

“You didn’t ‘reset’ anything. That was your ankle.”

“And now it’s reset. Coffee’s on you.” Preston grabbed the ball and started toward the gates where the physio was set up, limping just enough that he thought nobody noticed. Everyone was too busy packing up.

Training ended. The team drifted to the changing rooms, loud and loose. Slowly, everyone headed back to the dorms. But Peter told Will to go without him.

“I need to check something with the physio.”

Since the incident, he hadn’t seen Preston. As soon as the last teammate disappeared, he pushed open the physiotherapy room door without knocking.

A rustle from the corner made him freeze.

Preston.

He was on the bed, shoe off, sock peeled down. Ice was packed around his right ankle, and his face was locked in that tight, pissed-off expression he always wore when he was in pain and trying to hide it.

He saw Peter and his whole face changed.

“Hey. Thought everyone left.” He wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

Peter didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the ankle. It was swollen, purple creeping along the side like a bruise spreading. Dread pooled in his stomach.

“That’s not ‘slipped,’ Preston.”

Preston sighed and dragged a hand over his face.

“Look, don’t tell anyone. Especially not Coach.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I tell Coach? You can barely put weight on it.” Panic edged into Peter’s voice.

“Because if I tell Coach, I don’t play Saturday.” Preston sat up, voice low and urgent. “We’re a point off the playoff spots. Two games before the break. We need to get in, and the team’s in great form. So am I. The team needs me.”

Peter crossed his arms, jaw clenched.

“You’re gonna make it worse. Playoffs aren’t an excuse. We’ve got a lot of games left, and the team will be fine. It’s not that bad—maybe two weeks and you’ll be okay.”

“Maybe. But I’m also gonna be there.” Preston’s eyes burned. “And we need me. You know we need me.”

Peter stared at him. He hated that Preston was right. They’d been one point off the playoffs all season. If Preston was out, the whole forward line shifted.

“Why tell me?” Peter asked finally, voice quiet.

“Because you saw it happen. And you’re the only one who’d actually keep his mouth shut if I asked.” Preston held his gaze, pleading underneath the bravado. “Promise me, Peter. Don’t say anything. Let me play Saturday. If I’m useless at halftime, I’ll pull myself off. Deal?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. He hated it. Hated the risk, hated the secret, hated that Preston was smiling now like he’d won again.

“Deal,” he said, the word bitter in his mouth. “But if you collapse on the pitch, I’m telling Coach everything after.”

Preston nodded, relief flooding his face, and held out a fist.

“Coffee’s still on you, by the way. I won the race.”

Peter bumped it, but he wasn’t smiling. He was already thinking about Saturday—about watching Preston’s every step, every wince, every second on that pitch.

Saturday. Lone Star Elite vs. Belvert.

The whistle blew.

Preston didn’t wait. He took the kickoff, one touch to Peter, then sprinted straight through the center like he had something to prove. Lone Star’s midfield backed off half a step—maybe they saw the limp, maybe they didn’t care. Preston didn’t give them time.

Peter played it back. One touch. Perfect weight.

Preston hit it first time from just outside the box.

The ball screamed off his boot, dipped under the bar, and slammed into the net before the Lone Star keeper even moved.

*1-0. Ten seconds in.*

The bench exploded. Peter’s hands were in his hair. Even Coach cracked a grin. Preston turned, arms wide, celebrations ensued. As he embraced peter he whispered i told you it would be alright.

The game continued for a while . Peter was barely focused, he just had his eyes on Preston every run felt dangerous, that he could twist the ankle in an instant. Slowly he began to forget a little on Preston and more on the game . The ball came to him , peter turned his marker and healed for the flanks he looped in a cross, Preston jumped to head it , he missed and almost like he had forgotten about his problems, he landed on the right ankle.

Twist.

It wasn’t dramatic. No collision, no tackle. His foot just planted wrong, the same ankle he’d rolled in training two days ago. His face went slack for half a second, then twisted. He went down on the turf, clutching it.

“Preston!” Coach was already moving.

Peter got there first. Preston’s face was pale, jaw clenched so hard Peter could see the muscle jump.

“Don’t touch it,” Preston hissed through his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Peter snapped, and he hated how scared he sounded. “You lied.”

The physio was there, hands on Preston’s ankle. One touch and Preston let out a breath he’d been holding, sharp and pained.

“Swelling’s already bad,it looks like he already had the injury before now and decided to play through it "the physio said quietly to Coach. “He’s done.”

Coach’s face went flat. The look he gave Preston wasn’t angry—worse. It was disappointed. Preston looked away.

“Sub board,” he said, voice low. “Now.”

They carried Preston off. He didn’t look at his teammates. He didn’t look at Peter. He just stared at the grass, like he couldn’t believe he’d done it again.

1-0 up. Their best player gone. Fifteen minutes played.

Everything unraveled fast.

Without Preston, the shape collapsed. Lone Star pressed harder, knowing there was no outlet ball, no one to hold it up front. Peter dropped deeper to help, but he wasn’t Preston. No one was.

Lone Star equalized in the 25th minute. A scrappy goal off a corner. 1-1.

Then they scored again in the 33rd. 2-1.

At halftime, the dressing room was silent except for the sound of tape being ripped off and Preston’s ankle being iced in the corner. He hadn’t said a word since he came off.

Coach finally broke it.

“We had a plan,” he said, looking at Preston, then at all of them. “How could you have had such an injury and kept it a secret and that might have cost us the game ” He didn’t have to say it. Everyone knew.

Second half was worse. Legs were heavy. Heads were down. They were playing like a team who didn't want to be there , and they all felt it. Lone Star made it 3-1 in the 71st.

Final whistle. 3-1 loss.

Peter sat on the bench long after everyone left. Preston limped past him on crutches, he openedhis mouth to say something but peter signalled not to.

Don't say anything.

The team bus was quiet. Four points off the playoffs, and now they had no Preston for God knows how long...

Peter stared at his boots.

He’d promised to keep the secret.

Now the whole team was paying for it.