A Rush To Nowhere

Thirty minutes. That was all Xavier had left to get to the stadium.

That was impossible, given that he had no car—not to mention the last time he had been late, even with a car.

Panic surged through him as he stared at the clock on his phone.

He couldn't believe this was happening again. How many days had it been since he'd last been late for training? And now, here he was, repeating the same mistake. Only this wasn't just any training session—this was his first match. His debut.

Missing this game would ruin everything.

The situation felt almost laughably cruel. The team wasn't even playing at their usual stadium today. Instead, they were headed to a different venue, one further away. Missing the bus wouldn't just make him late—it would make him miss the game entirely. The thought made his chest tighten.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, anxiously watching the elevator numbers tick down. Each number seemed to take an eternity to change, the digital display mocking his desperation. Of all days, why did it have to move so slowly now?

"What is the use of this f*cking elevator if it's just as slow as the stairs?" He knew he was being irrational, but he needed to vent his frustration somewhere.

It wasn't just the elevator. Everything seemed stacked against him.

His car keys? Useless. He wasn't allowed to drive, banned for reasons he didn't want to think about. He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside.

'Focus, Xavier. Just get to the stadium.'

When the elevator doors finally slid open, he bolted out, his bag hastily slung over one shoulder. His sneakers squeaked against the polished tiles as he ran, heart pounding in his chest. Just as he turned the corner, skidding slightly, he came to an abrupt stop.

A car.

Oh, he could beg the driver to take him—whoever they were—if he moved immediately.

The car itself was expensive yet understated, exuding the kind of quiet luxury that spoke volumes without trying too hard. It was sleek and unique, the kind of vehicle that whispered wealth rather than shouted it—refined but unmistakably high-class.

"Please wait," Xavier said, stopping beside the car, though he couldn't see inside. The tinted windows concealed whoever was behind them.

A moment later, the window rolled down smoothly.

"Are you heading to the stadium too?" Her voice was calm and melodic, as if she had all the time in the world.

For a moment, Xavier couldn't find his voice.

Miss Red Hair.

His earlier panic felt almost ridiculous now, dwarfed by the effortless composure she exuded. He nodded, still catching his breath.

"Yes," he spoke quickly.

"Hop in," she offered, her tone light but inviting. "I'm heading there as well."

Relief washed over him like a cool breeze on a scorching day. Without a second thought, he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Thank you," he said quickly, his voice tinged with genuine gratitude.

The soft leather seats cradled him like a cocoon, and the faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, calming his frayed nerves.

As the car smoothly glided onto the road, Xavier couldn't help but marvel at how surreal the situation felt.

Wasn't this supposed to be the other way around? He was the professional player, the one with a career people admired—or rather, the one only female fans seemed to admire. His recent rank on Loogle flashed uninvited in his mind: top three in the Premium League.

But not for greatness.

No, he was in the worst players category—a humiliation he desperately wanted to shake off.

"This is not the time for self-pity," he thought bitterly.

Shut up, Xavier, his inner voice snapped, forcing him to silence the storm of negativity before it consumed him.

And yet, here he was, looking like a desperate rookie, while she appeared like some fairy-tale savior swooping in at the last moment.

"What are you even thinking?" he muttered to himself, shaking his head. His thoughts were absurd.

The silence in the car stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The gentle hum of the engine filled the space, a soothing counterpoint to the chaos in his mind. It was the kind of silence that felt intentional, not awkward.

Finally, she broke it. "It seems you woke up—"

"I know," he interrupted quickly, wincing as he realized how rude he sounded. "I messed up," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't realize I had overslept."

She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable as she nodded slowly.

The air-conditioning in the car cooled the heat of his earlier frenzy, and for the first time that morning, he allowed himself to take a deep breath.

He noticed her glancing in the rearview mirror, as though she were piecing something together in her mind.

Feeling the weight of the silence, Xavier decided to fill it.

"We're neighbors, you know," he said, the words tumbling out before he could think them through. As soon as he said it, he realized how obvious it sounded. Of course she knew.

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she let out a light laugh.

"Yeah, I do," she replied, her laughter like music.

"I was surprised to see you're one of the players in Rochester," she said after a moment, her tone conversational.

' Wow..She must have thought l was one of the cleaners, he thought dryly.

"Yeah, I just joined the club recently," he replied, keeping his voice steady.

She nodded thoughtfully. "You're pretty good, though. I saw your header during practice—it was impressive."

"Thanks," he said, his voice dipping slightly as he fought to find the right words. "Headers are kind of my thing."

'Bro, what was that? You sound so cringe,' he scolded himself internally.

She giggled again, the sound soft and unrestrained. It caught him off guard, and he found himself smiling despite himself.

He was trying to distract himself, but the word WOAT—Worst of All Time—kept ringing in his head like some endless chant.

"Sorry," she said, still laughing lightly. "It's just funny. You don't seem used to compliments."

"Maybe I'm not," he admitted with a small shrug, the honesty surprising even him.

After a pause, he hesitated before asking, "I haven't asked your name. May I know it?" He prayed it didn't come off as flirting.

"Oh," she said, turning her head slightly toward him. "Elsa. Elsa Lim."

"Nice name," he replied, nodding. "I'm Xavier Blue."

"Thanks," she said simply.

The conversation lulled after that, the quiet returning like an old friend. Xavier glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

One minute left.

Just one minute before the bus left without him.

As the car pulled up in front of the stadium, he barely waited for it to stop before throwing the door open and sprinting out. His bag bounced against his back as he ran, his eyes scanning the area desperately.

But the place was eerily quiet.

No players. No staff. No sign of the team.

His heart sank like a stone. "Am I too late?" he muttered, panic clawing at his chest.

Before he could spiral further, a voice called out behind him.

"Xavier."

He turned quickly, his breath catching.

Standing by the entrance, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, was the coach.

"Why are you here?" the coach asked, his tone neutral but laced with curiosity.

Xavier swallowed hard, his earlier confidence evaporating. "I—I know, boss. I messed up. I overslept, and I missed the bus…" He trailed off, feeling the weight of his words.

Wait—if the coach was still here, that meant the bus hadn't left yet.

He let out a small sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

The coach's expression remained unreadable as he asked, "You're here because of the match?"

"Yes," Xavier said quickly, nodding. "I was afraid I'd miss it."

The coach stared at him for a long moment before speaking again.

"The match is at 9:30 PM. In the evening, Xavier."

For a moment, Xavier's mind went completely blank.

"Evening?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes," the coach said. Dryly.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

The match wasn't in the morning. It was in the evening.

He'd spent the entire morning panicking—for nothing.

Laughter bubbled out of him, soft at first, then growing louder as the absurdity of the situation sank in.

All that rushing, all that anxiety—and for what?

Not to mention he already looked like a madman best friend.