Echoes Of Faliure

"That's enough." Chris spoke, but there was something deeper behind his words. Was it doubt? Accusation? The thought of his own teammates turning on him pinned him down, suffocating him under a weight he hadn't known he carried.

He drew in a shaky breath, willing himself to find the right words. Then, with a steady voice that betrayed the storm brewing inside him, he turned to Luke and finally spoke:

"Why should I believe what you're saying? Don't you think I'd know if I were changing teams? I'm not. And how could something like that even be possible?"

It wasn't like he was dumb or something. Just because he had played badly didn't mean his brain wasn't functioning.

His words echoed in the locker room, but they weren't met with answers. Instead, all eyes shifted downward—toward his hand.

Xavier followed their gaze, and when he saw what they were looking at, his heart sank.

The jersey he had exchanged with Rochester's player was still there, clutched loosely in his fingers. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt around him. He froze, unsure of what to do.

How could he explain that this wasn't what it looked like? That it was a simple exchange of jerseys—a tradition of sportsmanship, nothing more? But to them, it wasn't a friendly gesture; it was proof. Proof of betrayal.

Then, breaking through the tension like a knife, one of the defenders let out a loud laugh.

The sound was sharp and grating, pulling every gaze toward him. He leaned casually against a locker, arms crossed, his tone dripping with mockery.

"It might actually be better if Xavier left," he said, the corners of his mouth curling into a cruel smirk. "He's the worst player on the team anyway. What does he even bring to us?"

"WOAT," someone muttered.

The room erupted into laughter.

Xavier was used to being called that online—Worst of All Time. But never had he thought his own teammates would say it to his face.

The words hit him like a slap.

Before he could process them, someone else chimed in. "That's true," another player added, his voice laced with cruel humor. "If he kicked the ball, it'd probably hit the plank—or, better yet, one of the fans in the face!"

Laughter exploded again, but this wasn't the light, teasing kind teammates shared. This was different. It was sharp, cutting—meant to wound.

Xavier stood frozen, the weight of their mockery crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He scanned the room, hoping—praying—for someone to defend him. But no one did. The players busied themselves with changing, as if he weren't even there. The laughter faded, replaced by the sound of zippers and rustling bags.

Except for Luke.

Luke stood near the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly, jaw set in a hard line. His frustration was evident in every stiff movement.

Xavier's stomach churned. A part of him wanted to scream, to demand an explanation for this sudden hostility. But another part—the quieter, more insecure part—told him to stay silent. What if speaking up only made it worse?

For a fleeting moment, a dangerous thought crossed his mind: Maybe moving to Rochester wouldn't be so bad. At least there, he wouldn't have to deal with this.

But he quickly pushed the thought away. No. It wouldn't be better. Even if Rochester wanted him—and that was still a big if—what were the chances he'd actually succeed there?

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the sharp creak of the locker room door swinging open. Every head turned. Silence fell.

The coach stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He scanned the room briefly before his gaze settled on Xavier.

"Xavier," the coach said, his voice firm. "To my office. Now."

A heavy silence followed his words. The usual locker room chaos came to a standstill. Players who had been joking moments ago now stared openly. Their eyes burned into him, each one a silent judgment.

Xavier swallowed hard, his throat tightening. 'Why are they all looking at me now?' he thought bitterly. 'Wasn't it enough that we lost?'

Without a word, he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. The stares followed him as he walked out. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could feel it.

The hallway outside was brightly lit and eerily quiet. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he walked toward the coach's office. His mind raced.

Why was this happening?

For years, he'd been stuck in LukeChester, unable to move forward. No other team had shown interest in him—until now. Rochester, one of the best teams in the league, had reached out. But why? He was ranked the worst in the league. Was this some kind of mistake?

He reached the coach's office and hesitated before pushing the door open.

The office was small but meticulously organized. A single, plush chair sat behind a large wooden desk. The coach was seated there, hands clasped in front of him. He didn't offer Xavier a seat.

Instead, he leaned back, his expression as cold as ever. "You're leaving the team," he said bluntly. "We've signed you to Rochester. The money is good—it'll help us bring in a new, better player." He then continued, "And who knows? Maybe it'll also help buy some new equipment for the pitch,"

Money.

The words hit Xavier like a punch to the gut. He felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat but swallowed it back.

So that was it.

They weren't selling him because they believed in him. They were selling him because Rochester's offer was too good to refuse.

"I don't want to leave LukeChester," Xavier said, his voice trembling with anger and desperation. "This is my team."

The coach's expression didn't change. "That's exactly why you need to leave," he said sharply. "We need someone better."

Xavier's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. "If I go to Rochester," he said, his voice shaking, "I won't even play. I'll just be warming the bench."

The coach leaned forward, gaze unyielding. "It's better to warm the bench than to cost us games."

The words cut deeper than Xavier expected.

He stood in silence, his mind racing. How had it come to this?

After ten years with LukeChester, this was how they treated him?

His shoulders slumped under the crushing weight of reality. Without another word, he turned and left the office.

Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last. The thought of returning to the locker room made his stomach churn. He couldn't face them—not after this.

As he reached the exit—

BUZZ.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a notification.

The payment for the match had come through.

Normally, seeing that deposit would have brought relief, maybe even a small smile. But not today.

Today, it felt hollow. A consolation prize for losing everything that mattered.

Xavier clenched his phone tightly, his jaw tightening as a single thought echoed in his mind:

He needed to prove them all wrong.

But how?

"…Fine," he whispered. "I'll move to Rochester, Coach."

A slow, bitter smirk curled his lips as he turned away.

"Fear my return."