The air smelled like damp grass and old sweat. Just another cloudy morning in Hounslow. The kind where the pitch still glistened with leftover dew and your boots left clean cuts in the turf.
I was on the right wing. Sam was on the left.
Harry played striker, like always.
Coach split us into seniors vs juniors for a training match.
Normally, these were light. Banter, drills, maybe a few nutmegs to boost the ego.
Today?
Dead silent.
Even the wind felt tense.
Everyone on our team knew. About Sam and *her.
It wasn't just a rumour now—it was fact. Eyes had seen it. Mine most of all.
No one said anything out loud, but actions screamed.
No one passed to Sam. The ball would swing wide, they'd see him open, and still turn the other way. Sometimes they fumbled the play just trying to avoid him.
Coach noticed.
"Pass it to Sam if he's open!" he yelled from the sideline, hands on his head.
"This isn't primary school, lads. He's still part of the team."
No one responded. Just kept playing.
Sam tried to stay neutral—head down, jogging into position, but I could tell it was getting to him.
Midway through the second half, I received a throw-in near the touchline.
The ball came fast, but I controlled it smoothly, taking a sharp touch inward.
I spotted Joe—the captain making a run through midfield.
Quick one-two.
I flicked it to him. He let it bounce once and clipped it back, splitting two defenders clean.
I was through.
Just me and the keeper.
He rushed out quick—too quick.
I could've chipped it. Maybe gone around. But in that moment, something instinctive kicked in.
Peripheral vision: Sam.
Open. Goal side. Left foot ready.
I passed.
No hesitation.
The ball zipped across the box, perfect pace, perfect weight.
Sam froze for half a second like he thought it was a mistake—then snapped out of it and smashed it into the net.
Clean goal.
Silence.
Even Coach's whistle was delayed, like *he didn't believe what he just saw.
The juniors reset the ball, jogging back, whispering to each other. Our team stood still for a few seconds longer than normal, like time lagged behind the play.
I jogged back to my position.
Didn't say a word.
Sam glanced over once, confused.
I didn't look back.
Coach let out a half-chuckle like someone had pulled a prank on him.
"Finally, some actual football," he muttered, trying to hide his surprise behind a fake yawn.
Joe jogged up beside me as we waited for the next play.
"Didn't think you'd do that," he said, low.
I didn't hesitate.
"Because now the team's involved," I replied. "We need to win. It's not about us anymore. Not about what he did."
Joe raised an eyebrow slightly, nodding, listening.
"I'm not Sam," I added, my voice firm but calm. "He can't live in my mind forever."
Joe let the words hang for a moment. He gave me a slight nod, nothing more, and jogged forward to reset for kickoff.
I stayed back for a beat.
The weight in my chest hadn't gone away.
But maybe, just maybe, I had passed the ball not for Sam—but for the team.
And maybe a little for myself too.