First Time

Huff. Huff. Huff.

Xavier stood in the hallway, waiting for the elevator to arrive, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. He had just finished eight mile-long jog—the kind that made every muscle in his body burn and his lungs strain for air. His breaths came in sharp bursts, his ribcage expanding with each desperate gulp.

This was his first real attempt at settling into a routine since moving into the new apartment a few days ago—a place close to his new club.

It was a new season.

He glanced at the hallway mirror beside him, watching as sweat dripped from his forehead and soaked into his shirt. Despite his exhaustion, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He felt accomplished. It wasn't much, but for someone trying to rebuild a broken rhythm, this jog felt like progress.

His decision to move here had been inevitable. Rochester Stadium was closer, and there was no point in staying in Lukechester—a place where no one wanted him. His old teammates had made that painfully clear.

Still, as he leaned against the elevator's cold metal doors, his head began to spin.

"F*cking shitty hell." He cursed under his breath, realizing he had forgotten to take glucose before his run. Now his head was spinning like a merry-go-round.

The silence in the corridor was broken by the sharp ping of his phone. His stomach sank. He didn't need to check to know what it meant.

Another teammate had blocked him.

Since their crushing defeat a few months ago, this had become a grim ritual. One by one, his teammates had cut ties with him, their resentment manifesting in this cold, digital way. He unlocked his phone, confirming what he already suspected.

Only one name remained on his list: Noah.

For now.

Xavier shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. Even the benchwarmers—the ones he barely exchanged words with—had blocked him. The irony stung. The guy who hardly left the bench during matches, whose number he had only saved out of courtesy, had decided to sever ties too.

The one who had warmed the bench so much he probably feared it would burn.

He exhaled deeply, pocketing his phone just as the elevator chimed its arrival. The doors slid open.

His body froze.

Standing before him was a woman—a vision that stole the air from his lungs.

Her red hair was tied into a messy bun, loose strands falling in almost deliberate disarray. She wore an oversized shirt and a loose fitting jean, her casual attire doing nothing to hide her effortless beauty. One shoulder hunched slightly as she held her phone between her ear and neck, her free hand rummaging through her purse.

Xavier's eyes widened. She hadn't noticed him at all, her focus entirely on her conversation. The casual way she moved, oblivious to his presence, was almost maddening.

"But Dad, I told you I'll be busy tomorrow," she said into the phone, her voice light and melodic, yet laced with subtle frustration.

Xavier felt his pulse quicken for reasons he couldn't understand.

'Get it together, man,' he chastised himself, trying to calm the sudden wave of nerves crashing over him.

This was ridiculous.

He had faced roaring stadiums filled with tens of thousands of fans, endured the judgment of the entire football community, and yet here he was—speechless and unnerved by a single stranger.

A stranger who hadn't even spared him a glance.

The irony hit hard. Women had always been drawn to him. His fan base was full of admirers who would go to great lengths just to get his attention. And yet, now, faced with someone who didn't even acknowledge his existence, he found himself… rattled.

Not to mention the fact that most of his followers on Hellogram were women.

He stepped into the elevator slowly, his feet moving on autopilot as the woman stepped out. Just as the doors began to close, his eyes fell to the ground.

A key.

"Hello," he called out, his voice rough from both exhaustion and the unfamiliar nervousness curling in his stomach. He tapped the elevator door, which was nearly shut, his fingers brushing the cool metal.

The woman looked up at last, her deep blue eyes locking onto his for the first time. Her expression softened as he bent to pick up the key.

"Your keys," he said, holding them out. His voice seemed to deepen of its own accord, and he silently cursed how unsteady he sounded.

For a moment, her lips parted in surprise before curling into a smile.

"Thanks. I've been looking for them—silly me," she said, her tone light and almost self-deprecating.

She reached out to take the key, her fingers briefly brushing against his before she returned her attention to her phone call.

As quickly as she had acknowledged him, she dismissed him again, continuing her conversation as though he wasn't there.

Xavier remained rooted to the spot, staring as the elevator doors closed in front of him. His reflection in the shiny surface stared back, but all he could think about was her—the way her smile had lit up her face, the effortless grace with which she carried herself, and the sweetness in her voice that lingered in his ears.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, the words escaping him unbidden.

"So beautiful."

But that wasn't what he was supposed to be thinking about right now.

What he should have been focusing on was how to crush it—how to shed the weight of the title that clung to him like a curse: the worst player.

He hated that name.

It wasn't just an insult; it was a brand, etched into him by every sneer, every disappointed glance, every headline that questioned why he was still on the team. It gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his failures.

But who was he kidding? Changing that perception wasn't going to be easy. In fact, it felt impossible.

After all, it was always easier said than done. The work, the sweat, the relentless grind—it was daunting.

And deep down, there was a small, nagging voice that whispered something darker.

'What if I get worse?'

The thought made his chest tighten.

Before he could spiral any further, his phone pinged again.

Xavier glanced down at the device, his brow furrowing. He already knew what to expect—another blow to his pride, another digital rejection.

This time, it would be Noah.

The last teammate still tethered to him, albeit by a thread.

He smiled bitterly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in an expression that held no joy.

Of course, Noah would block him.

It was inevitable.

He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen. A part of him wanted to ignore it, to shove the phone back into his pocket and avoid the sting of confirmation.

But curiosity—or maybe masochism—got the better of him.

He unlocked the phone, bracing himself for the final cut.

But when the screen lit up, his breath caught.

It wasn't Noah.

His new club—Rochester's coach—had just sent him a message.

For the first time.