Nathaniel - What I can Control.

Present Day

Five years have passed since I graduated from high school; two since I moved out and bought my own place across town.

The solitude feels heavier on certain mornings. Sometimes the silence presses in—both a comfort and a reminder of what’s missing.

It’s still dark outside when I get out of bed.

Every day starts early—a habit carved long before success. Discipline carries me farther than talent ever could. In uncertainty, it’s my only constant.

That’s why my mornings are strict. I smooth the bedsheet, tucking every corner tight.
Then I drop to the floor: a hundred push-ups, a hundred crunches, jumping jacks until my muscles scream. The pain feels right—something I can control.

My walk-in closet is small but orderly. Running gear—shorts, shirt, shoes—waits in place.

In the kitchen, I grab everything for my pre-workout shake and dump it into the blender.

I don't need to check my schedule. I made it three days ago.
My notebook sits open on the kitchen counter.
I check it anyway.

05:30 — Run.
08:00 — Training.
10:00 — Interview.
18:00 — Team meeting.
19:30 — Training.

Exactly where I left it.

I drink my shake, rinse everything clean, load the dishwasher, and wipe the counter until the surface shines. My apartment is as spotless as I aim to be.

Outside, dawn stretches over the hills of Eldermoor. The air smells like wet leaves and promise. I step into it and start running.

The bridge arches over Eldermoor’s river, where only birds and rushing water keep me company. Lamplights flicker off above baskets of flowers—Eldermoor’s quiet charm waking slowly with the day.

I’ve never understood running with music. Nature makes for better conversation.

On Main Street, I pass Thorhorn Bakery—entrance to the left, apartment above. The windows are dark, but soon Freya will wake.

Today will be hard for her. The anniversary of her parents’ passing always is. The thought tightens my chest. Guilt and gratitude wrestle inside me: grateful for my own family, helpless for hers. I wish I knew how to carry even a little of her pain.

I pull out my phone and search for Freya's name. We’ve been on and off for a year, never defining it.

I type instead of calling. If I call, she'll know I'm worried

Sweat trickles down my spine as I head home, the day’s weight settling on my shoulders. At my door, I breathe deep, centring myself for what’s next—the interview, the performance, the control.

After a hot shower, I pick clothes that say I’m composed. I wax my platinum hair just enough to fall over my brow—my good side, camera-ready.

Nerves fizz under my skin. I meet my own eyes in the mirror and whisper, you’ve got this.

At the bar, I wait for the interviewer and order a glass of water. The waitress leaves her number on a napkin. I offer a polite smile, but won’t call. I’ve made myself a promise: no more chasing attention to fill what discipline can’t.

The interviewer arrives ten minutes late—thinning hair, tired eyes, a man stretched too thin. He places a recorder beside two cups of coffee. The papers he shuffles make more noise than his voice.

We go through a dozen questions. I answer cleanly, professionally, masking boredom with practised charm. He’s unprepared, and it grates on me. If I give my time, I expect respect.

Finally, he asks, “What drives you to keep pushing every day?”
I fold my arms, letting the answer form. “I live by vision. Dreams without plans are wishes. So I set goals—and I work daily.”

He nods, eyes down, fingers drumming on the recorder. Then, the final question: “The Eldermoor Ladies are making headlines, and Freya Haroldson has become a star in her own right. How do you feel about sharing the spotlight?”

My fists tighten under the table. I smile through it. “Sharing the spotlight with her is an honor. Stars don’t compete—they illuminate each other.”

It sounds polished, but the words taste like ash. We’ve always competed—driven, hungry, drawn together by that same fire. Two magnets, colliding and repelling, never settle.

A memory cuts through.

A few weeks ago. We had both won the League Cup. I thought we'd celebrate together.
Freya had ended... whatever we were a month before. At least, that's how I understood it.

One of her teammates, Micha, kissed me during the celebration. Three seconds. Long enough for someone to see. In a town like Eldermoor, three seconds are enough to become a story.

People talked. Added details that never happened. Took sides.

I thought Freya and I were over. She thought we were taking a break.
She called it cheating. We haven't spoken since.

After the interview, I shift gears, heading for the club. Waiting for the meeting, I scroll through my weekly assignments to force focus.

The conference room smells of coffee and turf. The air hums with a new season’s edge. My hands tense around my knees, left foot tapping as anticipation builds.

Markus greets me with his usual grin and a flick to my shoulder. “Hey, superstar. Been seeing you all over the news. Planning to shine brighter this season?”

Leo, buried in notes, smirks. “It’ll just make his shadow bigger.”

Jay chimes in, “Try passing the ball for once.” Laughter ripples through the room.

Leo leans closer. “Saw Freya on her run. She looked focused.”

I nod, pulling out my phone. Freya’s name glows on the screen—Nothing. It sits heavy. I push it down and tune back to the meeting.

Coach Boyers claps his hands. “We’ll have a new player soon—Kaiden Matthews. He starts training as soon as his transfer clears.”

My chest tightens.
Kaiden Matthews.

Someone I spent years teaching myself not to miss.
Apparently, I wasn't very good at it.

Markus nudges me. “You knew?”

“A few weeks,” I say.
“We talked.”

Not the conversation that still keeps me awake. Just enough to end the questions.

Nostalgia hits hard. Hope and unease tangle in my gut. Have we changed too much?
Markus nudges me. “You knew?”

“A few weeks ago,” I say. “He reached out.” Not the full truth—but enough.

Jay chuckles. “Let’s hope he hasn’t lost his ego.”
I grin. “If anything, getting benched probably made him hungrier.”

When practice begins, the field gleams wet under the floodlights. Rain still clings to the grass, catching light like scattered glass.

We warm up, moving through drills and formations. My focus sharpens—until I see her.

Freya crosses the gravel path to her field, her wheat-blonde hair in a high bun, pink shoes flashing. She stretches, laughing with her teammates. For a moment, I wish she’d look my way—just once.

Gemma darts by and slaps her arm; Ashley jumps on her back, both nearly falling as laughter echoes across the field.

Markus’s shout pulls me back. “Nate, your turn!”

Jay fumbles a shot, and Leo sighs. “You said you practiced copying Nate’s goal!”

Jay shrugs. “Turns out watching him doesn’t make me him.”

I laugh. “If copying me were that easy, I’d start with my off-field game.”

Markus grins. “Oh yeah? How’s that going for you?” He knows things cooled off between Freya and me. “Might be time to upgrade your game, too.”

I glare, smirking. “Worry about your own. Don’t want people thinking you’re just my wingman.”

Laughter erupts again. The teasing is familiar—our rhythm unbroken
.
When practice ends, sweat burns my eyes. I drag myself to the locker room. The noise fades beneath the hiss of the showers. Leaning against the tiles, I let the scalding water sear my shoulders, wishing it could strip away more than just the sweat.

Beneath the physical exhaustion, a deeper ache rises—one no amount of training can cleanse.