Chapter 1 — Legacy on the Line

Harley

The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees at Trailhead Park, dappling the ground beneath my worn cleats. The field stretched out before me, its emerald grass dotted with wildflowers swaying in the breeze. My gaze locked on the plaque mounted on the rusted bench by the pond. “For Carlos Leandro, who played for the love of the game.” The words, tarnished by time, gleamed faintly in the afternoon light. My thumb rubbed the leather knot of the bracelet on my wrist, its familiar texture grounding me against the churn of memories I couldn’t seem to outrun.

The scent of damp grass and pine hung in the air, mingling with the faint cries of birds overhead. This place—this field—always pulled me back. Back to Dad’s voice. Back to the drills. Back to the weight of what I’d lost and what I still carried.

I nudged the ball forward, the motion instinctive. “Let’s go,” I muttered, my voice low but sharp. It wasn’t a rallying cry. It was a demand. The season was starting soon, and I couldn’t afford to falter—not here, not now.

My first few touches were stiff, disjointed. The ball felt foreign, its rhythm distant from my own. “Focus, Harley,” I snapped, dragging my cleat over the ball to stop it. My jaw tightened as I reset, weaving through the crooked line of cones I’d set up earlier. Zigzag, cut, turn. My body moved on autopilot, chasing a perfection I could never seem to catch.

“The ball is like a heartbeat,” Dad used to say, his voice steady and warm. “Keep it close. Feel it. Listen.” His words echoed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. For a moment, I could almost hear the gentle clap of his hands, see the crinkle at the edges of his eyes when I nailed a drill. The memory hit me like a sudden gust of wind, and my foot fumbled. The ball skittered away.

I bent over, hands braced on my knees, my breath ragged. The ache in my lungs was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the hollow weight pressing against my chest. My thumb twisted the bracelet tighter, the knot biting into my skin as my gaze drifted back to the plaque. The ball had rolled to rest just at its base. A cruel joke, it seemed. A reminder I couldn’t escape.

“Why do I keep doing this?” I muttered under my breath, my voice trembling. The field stayed silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the chirping birds. My arms hung limp at my sides as I stared at the plaque, as if waiting for some sign—a whisper, a shift in the wind, anything to tell me I wasn’t failing him. But the universe offered nothing.

I jogged toward the ball, scooping it up and pressing it against my hip. The leather of the bracelet felt rough against my fingers. I twisted it again—a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break. “You’re pathetic,” I hissed, the words acidic and automatic. My chest tightened, and the sharp edge of tears clawed at my throat.

I shoved the emotions down and forced my focus back to the drill. My movements grew sharper, more aggressive. Each touch, each turn, each sprint was a plea—an unspoken apology. If I worked harder, moved faster, maybe it would be enough. Maybe it would somehow erase the memories I couldn’t escape.

But they came anyway. Flashes of Dad’s laugh. The steady weight of his hands guiding mine on the ball. The last memory—the argument. My voice raised, sharp and cutting. The screech of tires.

I slammed the ball with my cleat harder than necessary, sending it ricocheting out of bounds. My breathing hitched as I doubled over again, hands on my knees. The pounding in my ears drowned out everything else, but the guilt cut through, sharp and unrelenting. My thumb found the bracelet again, twisting and pulling at the knot until it dug into my skin.

I sank to the ground, the grass cool against my legs. The sky overhead stretched wide and indifferent, the clouds drifting slow and unbothered. “I’m trying, Dad,” I whispered, my voice breaking. The words trembled as they left me, barely carrying past my lips. “I swear I’m trying. But it’s not enough, is it? I’m not enough.”

A tear traced a hot line down my cheek, and I scrubbed it away with the back of my hand. Weakness didn’t win championships. Weakness didn’t honor legacies. My fingers curled into the dirt, but they found the bracelet again, twisting tighter, grasping for something I couldn’t name. “You left me with this,” I said through clenched teeth, glaring at the plaque. “What am I supposed to do with it? How am I supposed to make this right?”

The words cracked, and with them, something inside me shattered. The sobs came fast and raw, tearing through me in a way I hated. I buried my face in my hands, letting the storm come. The park stood silent witness to my breakdown, unmoving and vast.

When the tears finally stopped, the sun had shifted, casting the field in a soft, golden light. My chest heaved with uneven breaths, my body heavy from the weight of it all. The ball lay a few feet away, still and waiting.

I rubbed my face with the hem of my jersey, my hands trembling but determined. “Enough,” I said, the word firm this time. The knot in my chest hadn’t disappeared, but I wasn’t going to let it win. I stood, my legs shaky beneath me, and retrieved the ball. One more drill. One more sprint. Stopping wasn’t an option—not when stopping meant remembering.

The ball felt steady under my cleat again. I glanced at the bench one last time. The plaque caught a sliver of sunlight, its surface worn but enduring. My chest tightened, but this time, I didn’t let it stop me. Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to crumble. He’d want me to fight.

I squared my shoulders, pulling my ponytail tighter. The bracelet pressed into my wrist, solid and grounding. I started to dribble again, harder, faster, sharper. The ball was a heartbeat. And I wasn’t going to stop until I earned the right to carry his legacy.