Truth-Untold

Chapter 9: New Teammates, Old Scars

The video call glow from the phone threw harsh blue-white light across Marc’s face, carving deep shadows under his eyes and along the sharp line of his jaw. In the small screen, Damien looked wrecked—hair messy and damp at the temples, collar of his training shirt open, the familiar Ostin City office wall behind him lit only by the desk lamp. Papers scattered. Coffee mug cold and forgotten. He hadn’t slept.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Damien said, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. “Running. Hiding. I know where you are.”

“Then stop looking.” Marc’s voice cracked on the last word. He hated how small it sounded.

“I can’t.” Damien leaned closer to the camera until his face filled the frame. “Not when I know what you’re running from is me.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft, insistent tapping of rain against Marc’s single window—like impatient fingers drumming on glass, demanding entry.

“I saw the leaked footage,” Damien continued. “Grainy phone video from the academy pitch. You’re playing like you’re punishing the ball. Or yourself.”

Marc let out a bitter laugh that tasted like ash. “I’m playing to survive.”

“You’re playing to forget.” Damien’s pale green eyes searched his through the screen—relentless, tender, furious all at once. “It won’t work. You know it won’t.”

Marc looked away, staring at the bare wall where water stains bloomed like old bruises. “I have a game Saturday. First start with reserves. I need to focus.”

“Then focus.” Damien’s voice softened, but the edge remained. “But don’t pretend this doesn’t exist. Don’t pretend I don’t exist.”

Marc swallowed hard. “Your life is back there. The club. The board. My mother.”

“Your mother’s asking questions,” Damien said quietly. “The board’s restless. They think you’re on some vision-quest bullshit—disappeared to ‘find yourself.’ They’re talking about private investigators. Quietly, but they’re talking.”

“Let them think what they want.” Marc’s fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened. “I’m not going back.”

Damien exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried exhaustion and resolve in equal measure. “I’m ending the contract next week. Quietly. No press release. No scandal. Just paperwork filed and done. After that…” He paused, eyes never leaving Marc’s. “I’m coming for you.”

Marc’s breath hitched. “Don’t.”

“Too late.” Damien’s voice dropped to something raw, almost broken. “You left a piece of yourself here. With me. I’m keeping it until you come back for it.”

The call ended abruptly—screen went black.

Marc sat in the dark for a long time, phone still clutched in his hand like it might burn him. Rain kept tapping. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Then he stood. Grabbed his old running shoes. Pulled on a hoodie. Headed out into the rain.

He ran laps around the empty neighborhood park—three miles of cracked paths, chain-link fences, sodium lamps buzzing overhead. Rain soaked him through in minutes. His legs burned. Lungs screamed. He kept going. Pushed harder every time Damien’s words tried to surface.

You left a piece of yourself here.

When his legs finally gave out he collapsed onto the wet grass near the goalposts of a deserted five-a-side pitch. Chest heaving. Staring up at the bruised sky. Rain fell into his open mouth, cold and clean.

Saturday loomed like judgment.

Morning of the friendly arrived cold and gray. Westbridge’s small stadium—capacity barely four thousand—hummed with low-key energy. Local semi-pro side, a midweek friendly meant to test combinations and shake rust. No television cameras. No scouts in the stands. Just a few hundred fans, mostly family and die-hards, scattered across the terraces.

Marc arrived two hours early. The reserves locker room smelled of fresh tape and old victories. He sat on the bench in front of his assigned locker—number 9 already stenciled on the back of the navy training top—and taped his ankles in silence.

Kai dropped onto the bench beside him, already half-dressed. “You good, ghost? Look like you didn’t sleep.”

“Fine,” Marc muttered.

Kai studied him a beat. “Heard Torres is starting you. Don’t choke, yeah? We need the W.”

Marc managed a small nod. Kai clapped him on the shoulder and moved off.

When the locker emptied for warm-up, Marc opened his locker door fully.

Tucked inside, on top of his folded kit: a plain white envelope. No name. Just his number—9—written in thick black marker.

He tore it open with shaking fingers.

Inside: a single ticket stub. Faded blue ink. College championship final, four years ago. Section C, Row 12, Seat 7. The match where he’d scored the winner in the 89th minute—long-range strike that still made highlight reels.

On the back, in Damien’s sharp handwriting:

You scored the winner. I carried you off the pitch on my shoulders. Remember who you are.

—D

Marc’s fingers closed around the stub so tightly the edges bit into his palm. Memory slammed into him: the roar of the student crowd, Damien hoisting him up like he weighed nothing, the way Damien’s hands had gripped his thighs—steady, possessive, safe.

He pressed the ticket to his forehead. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

Then he tucked it into the inner pocket of his kit bag—close to his chest—and laced his boots.

Warm-up passed in a blur. Teammates jostled, laughed, hyped each other up. Marc moved through drills mechanically—passes, one-twos, finishing. His body knew what to do. His mind was somewhere else.

When the teams lined up in the tunnel, Kai bumped his shoulder. “You’ve got that look—like you’re about to murder someone. Save it for the pitch.”

Marc almost smiled. Almost.

Kick-off.

The first half was scrappy—semi-pro side played physical, cynical football. Marc took early knocks: elbow to the ribs, studs raked down his calf. He gave as good as he got. Dropped deep to link play, won headers, pressed relentlessly.

Twenty-three minutes: Kai won the ball high, fed Marc on the turn. Marc took one touch, looked up, saw the gap. Drove forward—two touches, burst past the last defender, rounded the keeper, and slotted it low into the far corner.

1–0.

The small crowd roared. Teammates mobbed him—Kai jumping on his back, shouting something filthy and affectionate. Marc let himself grin—just once.

Second half: more of the same. Marc scored again—header from a corner, powerful, downward—then assisted Kai with a perfectly weighted through-ball.

3–1 final score. Comfortable.

In the tunnel after, Torres caught his arm. “You played like you had something to prove.”

Marc shrugged. “Just playing.”

Torres studied him. “Whatever you’re carrying—keep it on the pitch. We need more of that.”

Marc nodded. Headed to the locker room.

He showered last—let the hot water (he’d paid the extra coins) pound against his shoulders until the ache dulled. Dressed slowly. When he opened his locker to grab his bag, the ticket stub was still there—safe, secret.

He zipped the bag. Slinged it over his shoulder.

Outside, the drizzle had stopped. Streetlights reflected in shallow puddles.

And in the small parking lot beyond the players’ exit, leaning against a black rental car under a single lamp:

Damien.

Hood up. Hands in pockets. Watching him.

Marc stopped breathing.

Damien pushed off the car. Took one step forward.

Marc didn’t move.

The reckoning had arrived.