Red Cards

Chapter 1 (Steven POV)

There are three things I can count on in this life: the weight of a soccer ball at the sweet spot of my right foot, the deafening roar of the Crestview faithful in the stands, and the precise, soul-crushing disappointment of Richard Cross sitting in the executive box.

It was eighty-two minutes into our season opener against State, the scoreboard blaring a tense 1–1 tie. Rain had slicked the turf of the Crestview pitch, turning every tackle into a skid mark and every pass into a test of friction. The crowd was a wall of sound—screaming, chanting, drumbeats vibrating through the soles of my cleats. My lungs burned with that familiar, lethal fire I lived for.

I loved this. I lived for the green grass under the stadium floodlights, the tactical chaos of eleven men trying to outmaneuver eleven others, the raw adrenaline of a game balanced on the edge of a blade.

Then I caught a glimpse of box 4B.

Even through the tinted glass of the VIP section, my father's silhouette was unmistakable. Impeccably tailored suit, hands resting casually on his golden cane, surrounded by board members and donors who hung on his every word. He wasn't cheering. He wasn't even leaning forward. He was checking his watch, his posture radiating the exact same clinical boredom he displayed whenever he was forced to attend something he deemed beneath him.

Childish sports. That's what he called it every time he tried to force a wealth management internship down my throat. A distraction from real legacy, Steven.

My jaw clenched, teeth grinding together so hard my jaw popped.

"Cross! Eyes up!"

Julian Mercer's voice whipped past my ear just as he slotted a low, threaded pass through the mid-line. Julian was our captain and central midfielder—a smooth-talking playboy off the field, but absolute lethal precision on it. The ball skittered across the wet grass, perfectly weighted into my stride.

I picked up the ball on the turn, flicking it past their defensive midfielder with a touch so soft it looked like magic. The crowd erupted, a collective gasp of anticipation rising from twenty thousand throats. I surged into the final third, my mind clearing, narrowing down to the math of the pitch: forty yards to goal, two defenders closing in, space opening up on the left wing where Matt Hayes was overlapping.

Pass or shoot?

I made my decision, dipping my shoulder to fake an inside cut. The defender bought it, stumbling slightly on the slick turf. I pushed the ball into the pocket of space, preparing to unleashes a curling shot toward the far top corner.

And then came the hit.

It wasn't a clean tackle. It wasn't even a play on the ball. Their center-back, a brute named Miller who had been tugging my jersey all evening, drove his shoulder straight into my chest a full second after I released the pass.

Pain spiked up my ribs as I slammed hard into the wet grass, skidding three feet across the sideline. Air burst out of my lungs in a sharp gasp.

The referee's whistle blew—a short, sharp blast—signal for a simple foul. Just a free kick.

"Get up, princess," Miller spat, standing over me, wiping mud from his chin. He glanced up at the VIP boxes, smirking. "Looks like Daddy's getting bored watching you roll around in the mud. Guess he realizes his money can't buy you actual talent."

Something snapped inside my chest.

It wasn't the foul. It was the combination of the mud in my mouth, the stinging ache in my ribs, Miller's smug face, and the cold, judgmental eyes of the man sitting behind the glass in box 4B. A white-hot wave of rage swept through my blood, blinding and absolute. The world narrowed down to a pinprick of pure, unadulterated fury.