Page 41 of Watched

ROME

Ipant through the adrenaline pulsing in my veins as Caleb grips my face tightly, beads of sweat gliding over his dark skin. “We’re on it, lad! Twelve fucking goals!”

I laugh and push his head as the rest of our team howls, congratulating one another. I scored nine of the twelve goals, but I won’t allow myself to celebrate too much. We were 12-4, and we should be. I expected nothing less than for us to come out with that win.

“Aston!” Coach Monroe calls.

My stomach pivots as I make my way to him and follow down the hall.

He stops at the end, arms folded over his chest. “Good game.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I was benched for over thirty minutes of the first half, but I can’t say I’m surprised by that. You make mistakes, you get punished.

“I expect this momentum to be carried into every training and next week’s game,” he explains firmly, thin lips stretching further.

“Yes, sir. I apologise for my distracted mindset. I’ll do better.”

“Don’t make promises, Rome. Show me.” I nod. “While I understand the pressure you’re under as one of the younger players on this team, we have new owners that are expecting you to play and perform. Nine goals are required, not a maximum effort.”

Despite my insides thrashing with disappointment, I give an affirmative nod, though his words still irk me.

New owners are expecting you to play.

If I’m playing, I want it to be because I earned it, not because Rain’s father dictated it.

Draping my bag over my shoulder, I step out of the team’s changing room in my usual black trousers, loafers, and white t-shirt. It was the outfit I wore after my final when I was six, and I’ve worn it after every game since.

Heading towards the stairs, I flick through my notifications, shaking my head at the most recent.

Unknown: Fucking good game, baby! Best striker in the league.

I groan and slide my phone into my pocket, taking the stairs two at a time. The doors slide open as I step into the team’s box, and I’m thankful it’s not as suffocated with people as usual.

Spotting my parents and sisters talking to Aaron, I hesitantly approach them. While my parents always come to home games, they sit sideline and rarely stay this long afterwards.

Indie jumps toward me, burying her face in my chest. “Well done,” she whispers.

“Thanks, princess.”

I receive a hug from Kilah that feels extremely deflated, and, after a round of hugs I don’t particularly want, Aaron hits my back. “Good game, son.”

“Cheers,” I reply dryly. “Can I speak with you…privately.”

Not losing an iota of composure, he motions to the door. I step into a spare conference room and flick the light to a dim setting. Aaron follows, some guy standing guard outside the room. Aaron slides his hands into his trouser pockets, motioning for me to speak.

He seems the same as my father, always wearing a suit.

Dropping my bag to the floor, I lean back against the wall beside the door and slide my hands into my pockets. “Did you have any influence on the decision for me to be subbed on?”

“And if I did?”

“Don’t.”

“You deserve to be on that pitch, Rome.”

“And I will be—when I earn it, not because you dictate it.”