Truth-Untold

7: Anonymous Tryouts

Rain came down in silver sheets, driven sideways by a wind that cut through soaked kit like knives. The Westbridge United academy pitch had turned into a battlefield of mud and churned turf. Marc’s boots sank an inch with every stride, sucking at his soles, making every turn feel like wading through quicksand. Forty hopefuls had been whittled to twenty overnight; the rest had been sent home with polite nods and promises of “maybe next cycle.”

Reyes stood under the overhang of the equipment shed, arms folded, whistle idle around his neck. He didn’t bother shouting over the storm—his gestures were enough. Sprints first: forty yards up, forty back, repeat until lungs screamed. Then shuttle runs, touching cones set at five, ten, fifteen yards. Marc’s quads burned, calves cramped, but he finished every rep ahead of the pack. Not showing off. Just unable to slow down. He was running from something, and the pitch was the only place he could outpace it.

Then came the 5v5 full-pitch scrimmage. No subs. No mercy. Marc slotted in with the blue bibs at striker.

First sequence: ball fed from deep. Marc dropped off the shoulder of the last defender, took it on the half-turn, ghosted past the center-back with a feint that left the bigger man sliding into mud. Cut inside. Right foot curled from twenty-two yards—ball kissed the inside of the post, spun viciously, and nestled in the side netting.

A ragged cheer went up from the sideline trialists waiting their turn. The burly center-back Marc had just embarrassed hauled himself up, spitting grass. “Who the f**k is this guy?” he muttered, loud enough for half the pitch to hear.

Marc didn’t answer. Just jogged back, eyes on the ball.

Next play: long throw-in from the left. Marc timed his run, rose above two defenders, won the aerial duel with a shoulder that sent one sprawling. Chested the dropping ball—perfect first touch—then volleyed it the first time on the bounce. Leather cracked. Top bins. No chance for the keeper.

Reyes actually clapped once—sharp, surprised, the sound cutting through the rain like a gunshot.

Marc felt it in his bones: the old rhythm returning. The ball at his feet still spoke the same language. But every goal tasted bittersweet. No Damien barking tactical adjustments from the sideline. No green eyes tracking his every movement with that mix of pride and something deeper. Just rain, mud, and the hollow echo of his own breathing.

Session ended thirty minutes later. Players trudged off, shivering, laughing through chattering teeth. Marc stayed behind to collect cones—methodical, automatic. Anything to delay going back to the empty apartment.

Reyes approached, towel draped around his thick neck, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. “You’re in.”

Marc straightened, cones tucked under one arm. Water streamed down his face.

“Reserves start Monday,” Reyes continued. “Contract’s short—month-to-month, performance-based. One bad attitude, one missed session, you’re gone. Prove you’re not trouble.”

“No trouble,” Marc said quietly. “Just want to play.”

Reyes studied him for a long beat—rain drumming on the metal roof above them. “Most kids your age beg for the spotlight. Interviews, socials, agents blowing up their phone. You’re hiding.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t care why—as long as you keep scoring like that. We need goals more than we need backstory.”

Marc nodded, throat tight. Relief hit him like a second wind, laced with something sharper—guilt, maybe, or grief.

Back in the apartment the hot water was extra—a coin-operated boiler in the hallway—so he showered cold. Icy needles stung his skin, but he stood under the spray anyway, letting it wash away mud and memory. He replayed the day in fragments: the rush of the ball leaving his foot, teammates’ grudging nods of respect, the way the net snapped when he hit it clean. It should have felt like freedom. It felt like an amputation.

He dried off roughly, wrapped the thin towel around his waist, and stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. Leaner already. Hungrier. The bruise on his ribs from that last brutal tackle in Ostin training was fading to yellow. New ones would take its place soon enough—Westbridge played harder, dirtier. He welcomed it.

The phone buzzed on the mattress—once, twice.

Unknown number again.

He opened it before he could talk himself out of it.

Photo attachment.

Damien on the Ostin City training pitch, alone after dark. Floodlights off, only security lamps casting long shadows. He stood at the penalty spot, hands on hips, staring at the goal like it owed him answers. Shoulders tense. Head bowed. Rain must have been falling there too—his training top clung dark to his skin.

Caption below:

This is what you left behind.

Marc’s chest caved in. Air left him in a sharp, painful rush. He typed three words—“Leave me alone”—fingers trembling—then deleted them. Tossed the phone across the room. It skidded under the bed with a dull clatter.

Silence for ten seconds.

Then another chime.

Not Damien this time.

Club PR email, forwarded from an anonymous account. Subject line: Westbridge United signs mystery striker ‘Marc Evans’.

Body excerpt:

Trial footage leaked online overnight—grainy phone video of a masked trialist scoring four in atrocious conditions. Scouts are already calling him ‘the ghost with a rocket shot.’ Ostin City board meeting tomorrow to discuss potential interest / loan inquiry. Name flagged as possible alias. Monitoring.

Marc’s blood ran cold.

They were already looking.

He crossed the room in two strides, retrieved the phone from under the bed. Stared at the screen until the words blurred.

The sock from yesterday still lay on the mattress where he’d dropped it—grass-stained, accusing.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.

Rain hammered the single window like it wanted to.

Westbridge was supposed to be a clean break. A place to disappear.

But ghosts don’t disappear—they follow.

And Damien Vale was the most persistent one of all.

Marc closed his eyes. Listened to the storm.

Somewhere in the city, under different rain, Damien was still standing on that pitch.

Waiting.

Hunting.

And Marc knew—with a certainty that hurt more than the cold shower—that the month-to-month contract he’d just signed wasn’t just for football.

It was a countdown.