Nathaniel - Before Kaiden

I can’t remember the first time I got my hands on a football. I was too young for it to stick.

What I do remember is being too small to look over the counter at the convenience store, a ball tucked under my arm like it was the most valuable thing I owned.

I didn’t go anywhere without it. Dribbling across the street. Shooting against wooden garden fences. Knocking it under parked cars and crawling after it without thinking twice.

Always moving.
Always doing something with it.

It was never about being good.
It was just… fun.

My dad brought me to Eldermoor Football Club when I was five.

Little League.
First team.
First structure.

At eight, the first scout approached my parents. Said he saw potential. Said my future could be on the field.

That was the moment things shifted.
My dad did what he always did; he decided.

He started driving me to Kingswell once a week. Top academy. Better coaches. Higher level. That, on top of my own training. My matches. Everything else.

Back then, it didn’t feel like too much.
It just felt… normal.
Football was still mine.

My parents said it was good for me. Said I finally had somewhere to put all that energy. Something consistent. Something useful.

When I was eleven, Kingswell made it official.
An offer.
Their athlete education program.
A pathway.

I remember hearing my parents argue about it late at night. My dad was already mapping out my future like it was set in stone. My mom was listing everything it could cost.

Because it wasn’t just an opportunity.
It was all or nothing.

Get injured, or don’t live up to it, and you’re out.

That’s when I learned what pressure sounds like. They almost divorced over it.

The better I played, the louder everything got.

More matches won. More people are showing up.
Scouts.
Agents.
Sponsors.

watching.
Always waiting.

By fifteen, people whispered when I walked past with my parents.
Heads turned. Expectations sat heavier than they sounded.

So had the club.
So had the town.

People whisper when I walk past with my parents. Heads turn. Compliments follow. Expectations sit heavier than they sound.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just a game.
It stopped being simple.

I never asked for any of it.
I just wanted to play football.
They made it everything else.

Winning the U16 Championship didn’t just expose me to the football world; it brought girls with it.
At school, they waited by my locker, walked me home, and showed up at matches.

It became routine.
Attention like that.
Admiration.

How easy it was to lean in, to kiss, to take what was offered without thinking twice.
It never felt like a choice.
It felt like something I was supposed to want.
Like winning something I didn’t even ask for.

That summer, I got invited to a party outside Eldermoor.
Older players I’d met were hosting it. I remember how big I felt walking in.

Like I had made it.
Like I belonged somewhere higher.
This was what it looked like, wasn’t it?

There were girls everywhere, dresses, skirts, bare legs catching the light.
The guys pulled me in, talking about everything that came with being known.

Not just football.
The other benefits.
It piqued my interest.
Of course, it did.

I made out with a girl three years older than me.
At first, it was just… fun.
Easy.
Something I knew how to do.
And then it wasn’t.

It shifted.
Fast. Too fast.

Her hands moved before I could think about it, before I could decide if I wanted it.
I tried to pull back.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.”

I hesitated.

“This is what happens at parties,” she added. “It’s expected.”

Expected.
That word settled in my chest before anything else could.
So I didn’t stop it.

I let it happen.
Not because I wanted to —
But because it felt like I was supposed to.

I didn’t enjoy it.
I remember wanting to leave before I even got dressed.

Afterwards, she told the guys. Like it was something to share. Something to celebrate.

They clapped my shoulder. Smirking and laughing.
“Now you’re one of us.”

I stood there, nodding like I understood what that meant. Like I had gained something.
But all I could think was …
Is that what people want to be?
Do I?

Or is that just what I’m expected to want?

The rest of that summer keeps replaying in my head.

What do I want?
I want to be good at what I do. Playing football.

Rohan Hale stepped in shortly after. I had always looked up to him, the best player at Eldermoor, closest to going pro.

We started training together in stolen hours, whenever our schedules lined up. Always on the field when no one else was watching. Just us.

It was the best thing I had ever done.
Hale never praised me. He expected output.
He showed me how to turn intensity into control.

Scoring is the only thing that counts.

Why play when you can dominate?

Each week, I lived for those sessions. My legs burning, lungs collapsing, pushing past the point where I should have stopped.

He never told me to slow down.
So I didn’t.

We repeated the same movements until I didn’t have to think anymore — my body just moved.

Hale didn’t look for my limits.
He found them.
And then he pushed me straight through.

Break yourself before someone else does.

The words stuck. Not loud. Just there.
And I loved it. This time, I chose it.

On the field, during matches, everything felt different. Sharper. Faster.
I felt unstoppable.
For the first time, it felt like I was in control.

For two years, I reshaped myself into the version I thought I needed to be.

Unchallenged on the field. Playing within my age group.
Everything became too easy. Too predictable.

For a while, I thought I had figured it all out.

Then I met Kaiden.

The only person who made me want to break that version just a little more.