Chapter 2 — The New Order

Aidan

The Greenfield Soccer Complex unfolded before me like a snapshot from another life—familiar yet distant. Back then, I was the one on the field, cleats biting into the grass, the ball an extension of my body. Now, the ball wasn’t at my feet, and the fire in my gut felt colder, tempered by years of setbacks. The whistle around my neck bore a different weight, heavier than anything I’d carried before.

I parked at the far end of the lot, away from the clusters of parents unloading gear and shouting reminders to their kids. The engine ticked softly as I sat for a moment, my fingers brushing against the smooth face of my silver watch. Its weight was both comforting and sharp—a tether to a time that felt like someone else’s life. The engraving on the back, “10/05,” caught the edge of my thoughts, and a faint ticking reached my ear. Steady. Rhythmic. I adjusted the leather strap, exhaled, and stepped out into the sharp scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the metallic tang of sun-warmed bleachers.

The sounds of soccer filled the air—cleats thudded against the ball, laughter erupted in bursts, a whistle pierced from another field. I adjusted the hearing aid in my right ear, catching only snippets of the layered noise around me, and focused on the task ahead. This wasn’t about me. It couldn’t be.

“Coach Aidan?”

The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to see Jake jogging toward me, as casual as ever in rolled-up sleeves and worn jeans. He grinned, easygoing as always, though I caught the faint tension in his brow.

“Jake,” I said, nodding.

“Glad you’re here,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Ready for the chaos?”

I glanced toward the field, where a group of players gathered near the goal, their movements restless and buzzing. “Chaos seems manageable,” I replied, my gaze honing in on the way they stood, shifted, and fidgeted.

Jake chuckled, his tone light but purposeful. “That’s your team. Good kids, mostly.” He hesitated for just a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “You know Harley’s on it, right?”

The name hit like a quick jab, though I’d known it was coming. Jake had told me plenty—about her drive, her talent, her intensity. Still, hearing it now wasn’t the same as facing it.

“I know,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

Jake shifted his weight, his grin fading into something softer. “She’s got a chip on her shoulder, sure. But there’s more going on with her than what you see on the surface. She’s carrying a lot, Aidan. Just… don’t be too hard on her.”

The words lingered, and I had to fight the urge to ask more. Instead, I nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

He clapped my shoulder once more before heading off. “You always do,” he said, his grin returning, though his tone carried a note of something unspoken.

I turned my attention back to the field. A girl stood apart from the group, juggling a ball with sharp precision. Her ponytail swayed with each touch, the light catching on the leather bracelet wrapped around her wrist. Harley. My gaze locked on her movements—controlled, efficient, but rigid. She wasn’t playing; she was fighting something invisible, something heavy.

The whistle around my neck felt cold against my skin as I raised it to my lips and blew. The sharp sound cut through the noise, and the players scrambled into formation. I stepped forward, scanning their faces. There was a mix of eagerness and uncertainty, but my gaze landed back on Harley. Her hazel eyes met mine head-on, sharp and unyielding. No hesitation. No fear.

“I’m Coach DeLuca,” I said, my tone firm and deliberate. “I’m not your friend. I’m your coach. My job is to push you further than you think you can go. If you’re coasting on talent or past achievements, that stops here.”

A ripple of whispers moved through the group, but Harley didn’t flinch.

“First drill—two lines. Passing accuracy. Let’s move.”

The players darted into position, their energy raw and scattered. I walked along the row, watching each pass with a critical eye. “Crisp passes. Keep your weight forward. No hesitation,” I called out, my voice cutting through the heat.

Some fumbled, their nerves betraying them. Others found their rhythm with a few corrections. Then there was Harley, her movements seamless but stiff, every pass landing exactly where it should. Precise, but almost mechanical. I stopped beside her.

“Good,” I said, my tone clipped. “But it’s not just about precision. Intent matters. Play like you mean it.”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with something I couldn’t quite name. She didn’t respond, but I could see the defiance simmering beneath the surface.

As the drills wore on, the heat pressed down, and the players’ faces glistened with sweat. Harley’s intensity didn’t waver, but the tension in her shoulders never eased. It was like watching someone try to outrun a shadow.

“Last drill,” I called. “Small-sided game. Two teams. Focus on teamwork. No ball hogging.”

There were groans, but they moved into position. Harley ended up on a team with younger, less experienced players—a chance pairing, but one I didn’t interrupt. I wanted to see how she’d adapt.

The whistle blew, and the game began. It didn’t take long for Harley to dominate, weaving through defenders with ease. But she didn’t pass. Not once. She fired shot after shot, ignoring open teammates, her focus entirely on the goal.

“Pass the ball!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the field.

She ignored me, sending another shot wide.

“Harley!” I crossed the field in long strides, stopping just short of her as the other players froze. “What part of ‘teamwork’ didn’t you understand?”

Her hazel eyes locked onto mine, sharp with indignation. For a moment, I thought she might argue, but instead, she muttered under her breath and turned away.

The game resumed, her passes hesitant and rare. By the time I blew the final whistle, the players were dragging their feet, their energy spent.

“Good effort,” I said, gathering them into a huddle. “But it’s not enough. This season’s going to push you harder than you’ve ever been pushed before. If you want to win, it starts now.”

The team dispersed slowly, murmuring among themselves. Harley lingered at the edge of the field, retrieving her ball. I debated saying something, but I held back. She walked away, her ponytail swinging like a metronome, her tension nearly palpable.

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck as I turned toward the parking lot. Jake had called her complicated, and he wasn’t wrong. But she was also talented. More than she realized.

The weight of the silver watch on my wrist pulled at my thoughts. The ticking felt louder now—steady, inescapable. A reminder of what I’d lost and what I was still trying to find.

I glanced back at the field, where Harley’s figure grew smaller in the distance. She reminded me of someone I used to know. Someone who thought they had to carry everything alone.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t walk away. Not yet.