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“Hey, you okay?” Grady, my roommate and fellow midfielder, nudges me.
“Yeah, just thinking about the next half,” I lie smoothly.
The words taste bitter because, in truth, I’m wondering if Lila remembers those days as fondly as I do. I sure as fuck hope she does.
As the second half commences, I channel my restlessness into the game, each pass, each tackle, and each strategic movement serving to center me. I can’t afford distraction, not when scouts are probably in the stands, not when my team relies on me.
Yet, the ghost of a childhood chant keeps whispering in my ears, blurring the lines between past and present. It’s a reminder of simpler joys, of a time when Lila would ruffle my hair after a game and call me a “show-off” with that affectionate roll of her eyes.
With the final minutes ticking down, the tension builds, a tangible force that grips everyone in the stadium. And then, opportunity strikes—a gap in the defense, a chance. I don’t think; I act. Muscle memory and years of training take over as I navigate the field, homing in on the goal.
Their goalie is good, but I’m better.
With a feint and a kick powered by more than just training—by every memory, every high, and every low—I send the ball hurtling into the back of the net. The sound is mighty, a blast that drowns out the chants, the cheers, and even the beating of my own heart.
For a split second, there’s absolute silence—then pandemonium.
The noise crashes back with a heavy weight. My teammates are on me in an instant, a tangle of limbs and shouts. But in the chaos, I’m still looking for her, scanning the stands, searching ...
And despite my doubts, I spot her there in the crowd.
Lila Tate, standing up in the bleachers, hands cupped around her mouth as she shouts my name, just like she used to. Dark hair, classic red lipstick, all-knowing eyes. It’s a punch to the gut, a blend of joy and pain, because it’s not like before—not really.
She’s not here for me, just here. And yet, it’s enough to make my heart race a little faster, enough to stir the embers of something I’ve tried so hard to ignore.
As I break from the huddle of my team, I lift my hand in a wave, a silent acknowledgment. There’s a defining moment where she realizes I’m looking right at her. Her cheering falters, and our gazes lock across the distance. Something passes between us, a spark, a connection, a shared memory that refuses to fade.
Then she’s waving back, a small, tentative motion. It’s a lifeline thrown across the stormy sea of people separating us.
The game resumes, the last few minutes stretching out like hours. I’m running, blocking, playing with everything I’ve got, but part of me is still with Lila, anchored in the stands. When the final whistle blows, the score in our favor, it’s all I can do not to sprint straight to her.
But duties come first. I’m swept along by the team, by interviews, by fans wanting a piece of the victory. I’m the man of the hour, the hero of the game, but the titles feel hollow when there’s only one person I want to celebrate with.
In the locker room, the buzz of my teammates’ conversations fades to a murmur. My phone chimes, and I yank it out of my bag with impatient hands.
Lila:hey stranger, great game. catch up soon?
My thumb hovers over the screen. I want to tell her everything, how much I miss her, how these moments don’t really mean anything if she’s no longer in them. But that’s too much, too fast.
Callum:yeah, how’s tonight? dinner?
I hit Send before I can second-guess myself. It’s casual, too eager, but it’s something. A start. I need to see her, need to find out if there’s a chance to reclaim what we had.
While my mind races, my teammates are talking playoffs, talking future, talking endgame. But the girl I always thought was my endgame is waiting for me out in the stands, hidden behind a curtain of people and years of unspoken words.
Tonight, I decide, as I stuff my phone into my duffel bag and zip it shut. Tonight, I’ll work to break down the walls between us. Tonight, I’ll find out if Lila can be more than just a memory. If she can once again be my everything.
“Man, you were on fire out there.” Grady claps me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the present.
“Yeah,” I agree, the word feeling hollow. “Good focus.”
“Speaking of focus.” He gives me a shit-eating grin, wiggling his eyebrows. “Saw you making eyes at someone in the stands. New girl?”
I roll my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks is probably answer enough. “Old friend,” I correct him, and his expression softens.
“Ah, those can be the tricky ones.” He nods sagely, tossing his own sweat-dampened towel into his locker.
I don’t have a response to that. Old friend doesn’t begin to cover what Lila is to me. What she’s always been.
