Truth-Untold

Chapter 8: Earning the Striker’s Jersey

The back fields at Westbridge United’s training complex were a world away from the pristine main pitch. Smaller stands—more rust than paint—framed a patch of grass that had seen better decades. No cameras. No VIP boxes. No legacy weighing every touch. Just floodlights buzzing overhead and the low murmur of a second-string squad that played for survival, not headlines.

Marc arrived forty minutes early. The changing room smelled of liniment and old boots. He sat on a scarred bench, taped his ankles in silence—methodical loops of white athletic tape, each wrap a small ritual of control. Teammates drifted in: some nodded, others ignored the new face. A quick, mouthy winger named Kai—twenty, dreads tied back, permanent smirk—dropped his bag next to Marc’s.

“New guy,” Kai said, sizing him up. “Heard you embarrassed the academy kids in the rain. Don’t get cocky, yeah? Reserves eat pretty boys for breakfast.”

Marc didn’t answer. Just finished the last strip of tape, stood, and laced his boots. Kai snorted, but there was curiosity in it.

Coach Torres—Reserves head, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper buzzcut, voice like gravel—blew the whistle outside. “Warm-up. Then possession boxes. Move the ball like it owes you money.”

Marc slotted into drills without fanfare. Possession boxes first: four v two in tight grids, one-touch, constant pressure. He read angles like he’d never left the game—intercepted, turned, released. No flourish. Just efficiency.

Then shooting under pressure: keepers and defenders closing fast. Marc took his turns last. First shot: controlled a bouncing ball on his instep, faked a shot, cut left—defender overcommitted—then curled it into the far top corner. Net snapped. A low whistle from the back line.

Torres paired him with Kai for combination drills. One-twos, quick give-and-gos, finish on the move.

“Run the channel,” Torres barked. “Marc, feed him.”

Marc read Kai’s diagonal run before Kai even committed. Threaded a perfect through-ball between two defenders—low, weighted, begging to be run onto. Kai latched on, rounded the keeper, slotted it home. He jogged back, fist-bumped Marc—grudging, but real.

“Alright,” Kai muttered. “You can pass.”

Midway through the session came the 11v11 scrimmage. Full pitch. Marc started up top with the blues.

First touch: long ball from deep. Marc controlled it on his chest—perfect cushion—faked left, exploded right. Defender bit hard. Marc rounded him like he was standing still, drew the keeper out, and tapped it into the empty net. Easy. Too easy.

Teammates stopped trash-talking after that.

Second goal: counter-attack. Marc dropped deep to collect, turned under pressure, spotted Kai making a diagonal run. Lofted a perfect diagonal ball over the top—forty yards, dropping exactly where Kai needed it. Kai finished first time. Assist.

Third: solo run. Marc picked up the ball just inside his own half, nutmegged the first presser, skin past the second with a drop of the shoulder, carried to twenty-five yards, and smashed it home—low, driven, keeper nowhere near it.

By the final whistle the blues had won 4–1. Teammates were calling for him by number—“Nine! Here!”—passing without hesitation. Kai jogged over after, breathing hard, grin wide.

“You’re alright, ghost,” he said, clapping Marc on the shoulder. “Keep feeding me like that and we’ll be mates.”

Marc managed a small nod. Adrenaline still sang in his veins—the closest thing to peace he’d felt in weeks.

Torres pulled him aside as the others headed to the showers. Rain had started again—light drizzle now, more mist than downpour.

“You’re starting Saturday,” Torres said. “Friendly against local semi-pro side. Don’t f**k it up. We need to see if you can do it when it counts.”

Marc nodded. “Won’t.”

Torres studied him a beat longer. “You’re not here for glory. I get it. Just don’t bring whatever you’re running from onto my pitch.”

Marc met his eyes. “I won’t.”

Evening fell fast. Marc walked home through the drizzle, hood up, hands in pockets. He stopped at the corner shop—same one as before—bought a cheap protein shake and a packet of instant rice. The TV above the counter was tuned to sports highlights.

Ostin City’s latest match replayed in high definition.

Damien on the sideline. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Jaw tight. The camera lingered on him longer than necessary.

Commentator’s voice filled the small shop:

“…Vale’s side looking flat since the Ostin heir vanished. Rumors of internal drama, family tensions… board still refusing comment, but sources say the search for Martin Ostin continues quietly…”

Marc turned away fast. Heart hammered against his ribs. He paid in cash, left without waiting for change.

Back in the apartment he collapsed onto the mattress—still no bed frame—protein shake forgotten on the floor. He pulled the training sock from his duffel. The one Damien had sent. Grass-stained, faintly scented with turf and him.

Marc pressed it to his face. Inhaled. Grass. Sweat. Cedar. Home.

Tears came hot and sudden. He didn’t fight them this time. Let them soak the sock, the sleeve of his hoodie, the concrete beneath him.

The phone lit up on the floor beside him. Unknown number. Video call request. Caller ID blocked.

Marc stared at it. Thumb hovered.

He swiped accept before he could think.

Damien’s face filled the screen—shadows under his eyes deeper than Marc remembered, jaw unshaven, hair damp like he’d been out in the rain too. Behind him: the familiar Ostin City training office, desk lamp the only light.

“Found you,” Damien said, voice rough, cracked at the edges. “Now what?”

Marc’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak at first. Just stared.

Damien leaned closer to the camera. “You think disappearing fixes this? You think running halfway across the country erases what’s between us?”

Marc finally found words. “You should’ve let me go.”

“I can’t.” Damien’s voice dropped. “I won’t.”

Silence stretched—rain tapping the window in Westbridge, distant thunder rolling over Ostin City.

Marc’s voice came out small. “I saw the highlights. Team’s struggling.”

“Because you’re not there,” Damien said simply. “And because I can’t concentrate knowing you’re gone.”

Marc pressed the sock harder against his cheek. “I can’t come back.”

“I know.” Damien exhaled. “But I’m coming to you.”

Marc’s heart stuttered. “Don’t.”

“Too late.” Damien’s eyes—those pale green eyes—burned through the screen. “Saturday. Your friendly. I’ll be in the stands. No cameras. No scene. Just me. Watching.”

Marc shook his head. “You’ll ruin everything.”

“I already ruined everything the moment I didn’t kiss you on that terrace.” Damien’s voice cracked again. “I’m not making that mistake twice.”

The call ended—the screen went black.

Marc stared at the dark phone for a long time.

Then he curled around the sock, knees to chest, and let the tears come harder.

Saturday wasn’t just friendly anymore.

It was a reckoning.