4. Liam

Ipull into the stadium's parking lot, the early morning quiet wrapping around me like a thick fog. The lot is empty, save for Coach Thompson's car sitting alone under the pale dawn light. I park my car, killing the engine, and rest my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for a moment. Sleep has been elusive for the past few nights, my mind relentlessly circling back to Vanessa.

As I step out of the car, the cool morning air hits my face, a sharp contrast to the tangled warmth of the thoughts I harbor about her. I recall telling her "no" last night—a decision that feels like the toughest I've ever made. It's clear in my gut; with Vanessa, it wouldn't just be about sex. There's a depth, a complexity to her that I can't ignore.

I walk toward the stadium office, my steps automatic. Coach's office light is on, casting a warm glow through the window.

Stepping into Coach Thompson's office, the familiar scents of leather and old books wrap around me. It's a space that's become a sanctuary over the years, a place where victories and losses are equally shared. Coach looks up, his eyes reflecting years of wisdom and the weight of leadership. "Morning, Coach," I greet, trying to sound more energetic than I feel.

"Liam, you look rough. Bad night?" he asks, looking up from a stack of papers.

A chuckle escapes me, though it lacks its usual warmth. "Yeah, just couldn't catch enough sleep." The truth is more complicated, tangled up in thoughts of Vanessa and the future that looms large, casting long shadows over my present. "What did you want to talk about?"

He leans forward, his fingers tented. "We need to talk about the team's leadership going forward. This is your last year, Liam. It's time to think about who'll step into your shoes."

I nod, his words hitting me harder than I expected. I've always known this moment would come, and I feel a strange pang of longing at the reminder of my freedom reaching its expiration date. "You're thinking about the new captain?"

"Exactly." Coach leans back, eyeing me with an understanding that goes beyond the soccer field. "You've set a high bar, Liam. We need someone who can handle the pressure and keep the team united. Based on the stats, it's between Westbrook and Hawthorne. What's your take?"

The question hangs in the air. I consider Cole Westbrook, with his natural athletic prowess but questionable attitude, and Ethan Hawthorne, steady but less dynamic. "It's a tough call, Coach. Westbrook has the skills, but Hawthorne has the discipline."

Coach rubs his chin, mulling over my words. "I see your point. We need someone who can handle the pressure on and off the field." He shakes his head. "Would you not consider doing a master's? It would help me out."

I let out a laugh. "I would if I could." The idea of staying for a master's, extending my time here, tempts me more than I can say. But reality quickly sets in. My plans after graduation are set, commitments and goals I can't ignore, even for the sake of the team or… something else.

This is not about me—it has never been about me.

Duty, above all else, chimes the stern voice of my father.

"I've been thinking… Maybe a co-captaincy could work."

Coach leans back against his desk, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've never seen it work before. You live with them—think it's possible in this case?"

I shrug, a hint of longing in my voice. "They're close. They complement each other. It could be what the team needs." Inwardly, I feel a twinge of envy for their carefree dynamic. My own semblance of freedom has always been bound by conditions and expectations. I am not a fool. I know these four years were an illusion of freedom, and sometimes I regret it. It feels almost sadistic to be so close to the real thing and not be able to touch it.

He flips open his book to the players' stats—confidential information that only I have access to. "Okay, we need to pick the new recruits for the starting lineup on Sunday."

For the next thirty minutes, I'm engrossed in the task at hand, temporarily forgetting about home, responsibilities, and a certain wild girl.

After we finalize the lineup, I decide to hit the gym. Maybe a weight training session on top of my morning run will help clear my head. When I arrive, some teammates are already there. I notice the atmosphere subtly shift; the laughter dies down a bit, and the training intensifies.

Internally, I sigh as I set down my bag. Despite my efforts, I'm still seen as an authority figure. They don't react to me like they do to Coach, but there's still a noticeable change.

Ethan is already there, which surprises me. "Fell off the bed?" I joke, setting up on the bench press next to him.

He snorts, then hesitates. "You could say that. I… never mind, it's stupid."

A flicker of irritation crosses my mind, but I press on. "No, go on. I'm not all business."

I think Ethan notices the edge in my voice because he throws me a curious look. "No, I know that, but you're always so… pragmatic; besides, what kept me awake is genuinely stupid."

"Pragmatic… Is that a nice way to say boring?" I mean to say it in a joking tone, but I don't think I managed as well as I wanted.

Ethan sighs, slumping a little on his bench. "It's just… I don't know if you'd get it. It's about Poppy. She agreed to go to the varsity ball with me."

"Oh!" Okay! Girl problem. That I can handle… I think. "That's great, isn't it?" I ask, trying to be encouraging.

"I— Yes, of course, but… She's so skittish, and that's my one chance… if I fuck it up." He rubs his neck, a sign of his nervousness.

"Why would you fuck it up?"

He grimaces. "I promised to find dates for her roommates. Cole's taking Eva, whether she likes it or not."

I tense up at the mention of all three roommates. "Wait, all of them?"

"Yeah, Morticia might be tough to match, but Peters might take her," he says, nodding toward the redhead on the treadmill.

"Don't call her that," I snap, then quickly soften my tone. "Poppy wouldn't like that."

Ethan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, she threatened to hex me and have my balls rot and fall." His eyes narrow. "Why are you smiling?"

I can't help but smile at the thought of Nessa's wild spirit. "You have to admit, that's pretty funny."

"Umph—It's not your dick being threatened!"

I chuckle. "Fair point. But listen, Ethan?—"

He cuts me off. "I'm not gonna ask you to break your no-student rule, even if it's just for one night."

Confused, I frown. "What?"

"I won't ask you to take her. Don't worry about it," he says with a laugh.

I try to hide my disappointment as I reach for the weights. "Alright, let's focus on training. Your arms are looking a little skinny."

As I start my set, a part of me wishes he had asked. Maybe, just maybe, I was ready to break my own rule for her.

I'm getting ready for class when the sounds of an argument reach my ears. Pushing open the door, I find Ethan and Cole in the middle of a heated discussion.

Ethan rolls his eyes, pushing a black bank card back toward Cole. "Come on, man, don't overplay your role. I need you to?—"

Cole slams his hand down on the counter, the playfulness in his eyes replaced by sharp seriousness. "Buy the fucking dress, Ethan, and move on."

Ethan whistles, Cole being volatile again seems to surprise him. I'm not sure why though—it seems to be a constant with Cole as far as Eva is concerned.

"Okay, Mr. Romance Psycho, I'll make her buy the most expensive thing there is and have her pick shoes to go with it."

Cole nods, a hint of approval in his expression, his beast calming down. "And get the dress in red; it really suits her," he says before disappearing into his room, leaving Ethan and me in a moment of silence.

I can't help but laugh, the sound echoing into the kitchen. Ethan looks up, spotting me leaning against the doorframe. "Now I need to find someone for Morticia."

"Don't…" I sigh. "She's a pretty thing; it shouldn't be that hard," I remark, a playful tone in my voice, and yet I can't help but feel a hint of jealousy at the idea of one of the idiot players taking her to the party. She'll get bored with them, they would not know how to handle her.

"She's dangerous," Ethan counters.

Yes, she is—in ways you will never comprehend.

"Like a slow loris?" I ask, one eyebrow raised in amusement to deflect.

"A what?"

"You know, slow loris," I explain. "Those little guys are about the size of a teddy bear and look like a miniature Ewok, but they're venomous. They bite when threatened, and their bites carry a deadly, fast-acting poison."

"Yeah, something like that," Ethan muses. He looks at me, puzzled. "How do you even know this kind of stuff?"

I pause for a moment, realizing that I can't pass my chance this time. My mother always said when something is supposed to happen it would not pass you by. "I'll be her date."

Ethan's mouth hangs open, clearly stunned. It's no secret that I don't date students, a rule I've made abundantly clear to everyone, but I don't feel like explaining. I can't explain because I'm not even sure myself. This pull is all but rational.

"You don't have to," he finally manages to say.

"I know," I reply, the corners of my mouth lifting in a secretive, almost mischievous smile. With that, I retreat back to my room, leaving Ethan to process this unexpected turn of events.

I know perfectly well this is stupid; there's no denying it, and yet I can't help but feel a thrill at breaking my own rules for once, at not being the "perfect" son. I can understand now why my little brother is addicted to chaos. It's far more exhilarating.

The phone's ring slices through the silence of my room, the word "Family" glaring up at me from the screen. Drawing a deep breath, I answer, bracing myself.

"Hello?"

"Son, how are you?" It's my mother's voice, unusually direct, bypassing the usual formalities of her secretary.

I frown, a mix of surprise and suspicion stirring inside me. "Mother? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, why wouldn't it be?" Her tone is brisk, almost dismissive.

"I—you rarely call." My words hang in the air, a reminder of the distance that's grown between us, filled more with duty than affection.

"Well, I don't have much time. I'm sorry." Her apology sounds hollow, a perfunctory nod to maternal duty.

Aren't we all? "What can I do for you?"

"As you know, there will be the jubilee soon, and we were wondering if you would be in attendance or if you are still planning to play commoner."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the weight of her words—resisting the urge to remind her that, technically, she is a commoner. "I still have until June, Mother. It's what was agreed, and I highly doubt I'll make it to the jubilee." I try to keep my voice calm, but there's an underlying current of frustration, a silent scream against the golden cage I've been living in.

"I see…" She sighs heavily, and I can almost see her, poised and elegant yet laden with unspoken demands.

"It's an annual event, Mother, and this would be my first miss. It's not the end of the world." My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, swallowed by the gulf between expectation and reality.

"No, I suppose it isn't, but your presence would be nice." There's a softness in her voice now, a rare glimpse of the maternal affection buried beneath layers of aristocratic duty.

"You have Henrick and Annika. It's fine."

"Your brother, Henrick…" Her voice trails off, and I know that behind her diplomatic facade lies a storm of frustration with my younger brother's antics.

That familiar pang of guilt gnaws at me. I should be there, taking my place, easing her burden. But then, the vision of a life dictated by protocols and expectations looms before me, and I cling to my last shreds of freedom. "He's young, Mother. Give him time. I'll be back for Christmas."

Another sigh. "Your father wants to talk to you."

"Now?" I glance at my alarm clock. Despite my degree's future irrelevance, I'm committed to earning it legitimately, and I dislike being late.

"No, not now. But a call now and then would be nice."

I don't bother telling her that almost every time I call my father, it's picked up by his secretary, who informs me that my father is busy. And when, by a stroke of luck, I manage to speak with him, it always ends up being an endless tirade about responsibilities and choices and privileges. "I'll call him later. I have to go to class."

"Think about the jubilee," she insists as I'm about to hang up. "You can make it in less than forty-eight hours with the jet."

"I'll see if I can make it," I reply, a noncommittal promise.

As I disconnect the call, the walls of my room feel closer, the air heavier. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life—one where choices are mine to make, where duty doesn't dictate every step. But then reality crashes back, a reminder of the gilded chains that bind me.

Heading to my international politics class, I ponder the irony of it all—studying theories of freedom and governance while being a pawn in a grander scheme. The professor dives into a discussion on the complexities of global diplomacy. His passion for the subject is evident, but I find myself increasingly skeptical of the theories he presents, given my own experiences and knowledge of real-world politics.

Midway through the lecture, the professor poses a pointed question to the class, his gaze landing on me. "Mr. Ashford, would you care to share your thoughts on the effectiveness of economic sanctions as a means of international diplomacy?"

I pause for a moment, formulating my response. "Theoretically, economic sanctions can be effective in compelling a change in a nation's policies," I begin, cautious in my wording.

The professor raises an eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone. "Why use ‘theoretically'? Do you know better, Mr. Ashford?"

I feel a flicker of irritation at his derisive tone. He doesn't have a clue about my family's actual influence and my personal experiences, giving me a unique, albeit cynical, insight. I want to retort with the full weight of my personal knowledge, but I hold back, maintaining the public persona I've carefully crafted. Still, I can't resist a biting comeback. "No, I do not, Professor. But do you? Can we claim true understanding without experiencing the consequences firsthand?"

The room falls into a brief, stunned silence. The professor, taken aback by my challenge, quickly regains his composure. "An interesting perspective, Mr. Ashford. Let's delve deeper into that," he replies, steering the discussion back to safer, theoretical grounds.

The lecture's theoretical discussions fade into the background as my thoughts shift to the upcoming varsity ball. There's a spark of excitement inside me, a sense of anticipation that feels both novel and exhilarating. For once, I'm not attending a social event out of obligation or family duty. This time, it's different—it's personal.

I catch myself imagining Nessa in her dress, wondering how she will transform for the ball. It's a simple curiosity, yet it fills me with an unexpected thrill. I'm about to experience the event, not as a member of the establishment but as Liam, a twenty-one-year-old college student looking forward to a night out. It's a refreshing change, a chance to embrace the normalcy of young adulthood that I've often missed.

This weekend's ball, previously just another engagement in my calendar, now holds a sense of promise and excitement. It represents a night where I can step out from under the weight of expectations and just be in the moment, especially with Nessa by my side. This newfound anticipation is a vivid reminder of the simple joys of life, joys that I'm eager to experience.