Page 6

CHAPTER 6

KAI

T he roar of the crowd is deafening.

Floodlights glare down on the pitch, casting long shadows across the turf, illuminating the sweat-slicked bodies of my teammates as we collide in the final moments of play.

The scoreboard flashes. We’re winning. Dominating.

I should feel it. The rush. The fire in my veins. The satisfaction that comes with knowing we controlled every phase, crushed every play, left the opposition scrambling in our wake.

Instead, it feels... hollow .

I push forward, reading the gaps in the other team’s defense. The ball comes to me, smooth and effortless, and I make the break, slicing through defenders like they aren’t even there. My body moves on instinct—duck, step, surge forward—but my mind?

My mind is a thousand miles away.

Mum’s sick and it could be really serious.

I shouldn’t be here.

A body slams into me, jolting me back to the present. I absorb the hit, roll off, and push up fast, the ball still secure in my hands. I hear the crash of bodies behind me, the grunt of effort, but none of it sticks .

I get the offload away, and seconds later, we score.

The crowd erupts. My teammates slap my back, a rough mix of celebration and adrenaline-fueled aggression, but it barely registers.

It’s another win. Another moment where I’m supposed to feel something.

But all I can think about is my mum sitting in that too-small waiting room appointment after appointment, flipping through old magazines, waiting for a doctor to tell her if the cells in her body are killing her or if she’s got more time.

A whistle blows. Full-time. The game is ours.

I run a hand through my damp hair, my chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. Around me, my team celebrates. Laughter. Cheers. Grins stretched across sweaty faces.

I should be happy . I should be proud.

Instead, I feel like a fucking ghost in my own body.

I glance at the stands out of habit, like I expect to see my mum there. Like I haven’t been gone for years now.

She’d always come to my matches when I was younger. She was the loudest one there, standing in the front row, clapping like every tackle I made, every try I scored, was the greatest thing she’d ever seen.

I should be there for her now.

Instead, I’m here. Chasing something that doesn’t even feel real anymore.

Someone claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Solid game, bro,” one of the guys says, his grin wide, his body still humming with post-match adrenaline. “You carved them up.”

I force a nod. A smirk that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Cheers.”

I turn away before he can see through the bullshit.

The locker room is loud—music blasting, guys still high off the win. I sit at my locker, elbows on my knees, my head dropped forward.

On instinct, I grab my phone out of my bag and read my brother’s message from yesterday.

Wait and see.

A sharp pang slices through me.

I should be there. I should have been sitting next to her in that waiting room, asking the questions she never will, making sure they’re doing everything they can.

Instead, I was here. On this field. Winning a game that doesn’t even matter.

My fingers hover over my screen. I type:

Wish I could’ve been there.

I delete it.

I try again:

Let me know if she needs anything.

Delete.

Finally, I send nothing.

I just sit there, staring at the floor, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Outside, my team celebrates. The crowd filters out. The stadium lights begin to dim.

And me?

I sit in the silence, feeling the weight of all the miles between me and home.