Jayden.
I watched her walk away, back straight, chin up, like she'd just won some kind of silent battle between us.
Maybe she had.
She didn't even glance over her shoulder, not once. That stung more than it should've.
I stayed where I was for a moment, leaning against my car, the late evening air cool against my skin. My hand gripped the keys tighter than necessary. I wasn't sure what frustrated me more—her stubbornness or the way it made me want to chase after her just to… I don't know. Get the last word.
Instead, I did nothing.
I just stood there like an idiot, watching Amanda Carter walk away like I was the last person on earth she wanted to deal with.
And I reminded myself—again—that she's Ethan's little sister.
That thought was a cold bucket of water every time.
Seventeen. High school senior. Captain of a small-town soccer team.
Not my business.
But that wasn't the full truth, was it? Because she is my business—at least on the field. She's my player. My captain. My responsibility to mold into the kind of leader this team needs.
And if I'm being brutally honest, that's why I push her harder than the others.
Not because I enjoy getting under her skin. Not because I like the way her brown eyes flash when she's pissed at me.
No.
It's because I can see her potential—what she could be if she focused. She's raw talent, sharp instincts, and pure drive rolled into one. But she's also too hotheaded for her own good.
And tomorrow is huge.
For her. For the team.
For me.
It's our first qualifying match. I know what she's capable of, but she needs to prove it.
I started the engine and drove off, but her voice—clipped and final—echoed in my head.
"I'll pass. Thanks, though."
My hands tightened on the wheel.
Maybe it was for the best.
Let her cool down.
Still, I'd hoped for a chance to break the ice tonight. A quiet car ride. A few pointers. Maybe even reminding her that despite how it looks on the field, I'm not her enemy.
But Amanda Carter doesn't take olive branches. She sets them on fire and hands them back.
******
My apartment wasn't much to look at from the outside—just another brick building tucked into a quiet street on the edge of Folkner. But inside, it was exactly what I needed.
Spacious enough to breathe. Clean lines. Neutral tones. Modern without being pretentious.
The kind of place that felt lived in, but not too lived in.
The kitchen bled into the living area, where a massive wall-mounted flat screen took up most of one wall. A low, wide sectional couch sat opposite, big enough for game nights or passing out after a long day.
The only personal touch? A single framed jersey hanging above the TV—mine from my last professional match. The number bold, my name still sharp across the back. A reminder of who I was. Or maybe who I wasn't anymore.
I'd bought the apartment as soon as I took the coaching job. Nothing fancy. Nothing connected to my father's endless string of properties. No staff hovering, no media cameras tracking every move.
Here, I wasn't Jayden Reynolds, son of a billionaire that owns one of the biggest Sports Management & Player Agency— Reynolds Sports Group.
Here, I was just Assistant Coach Jayden.
I liked that.
The quiet helped too.
My phone buzzed just as I was opening the fridge.
A message from Ethan.
You home?
I typed back a single word: Home.
On my way, he replied almost instantly.
Of course he was. It was past seven, but Ethan thrived on late hangouts.
I sighed, pulling out the container my housekeeper had left for me—pasta and meatballs. God bless her.
I set it in the microwave, leaning against the counter as the machine hummed.
My mind drifted.
To Amanda.
Her glare earlier on the field. The way she muttered with her teammates after I called her out. That defiance.
It's infuriating.
It's… impressive.
And that was the problem.
The microwave dinged.
I grabbed a fork but decided to shower first. Padding barefoot into my room, I stripped and let the hot water beat against my skin, trying to wash away the tension from the day.
When I emerged, I threw on a pair of grey joggers that sat low on my hips, left my chest bare, and looped my medallion chain over my neck again.
Back in the kitchen, I was just pulling out my reheated plate when there was a loud knock at the door—three quick pounds that could only belong to Ethan.
"Don't break my door, man. I just got this place," I called, grinning as I jogged over.
The door swung open, and there he was—my best friend.
"What's up, brother?" Ethan grinned, pulling me into a quick hug, all easy charm and energy like always.
"Same old," I said. "Come in. Make yourself at home."
He stepped in, eyes scanning the space. "Damn. Cozy. I like it."
"Glad it passes inspection," I teased, moving back to the kitchen. "Pasta?"
"Hell yes."
I grabbed another plate and dished out a second serving, sliding it across the island toward him.
Ethan made himself comfortable on the sectional, grabbing the remote and flipping the TV on. "Still can't believe you actually took this job, man. Assistant coach at Folkner High? What happened to big-city Jayden?"
I smirked. "Big-city Jayden needed a change of scenery."
"And by scenery, you mean… small-town Jayden?" He chuckled. "Seriously though. You good here? Not regretting it?"
I thought about it. The field. The kids. Amanda's glare.
"No regrets," I said finally, sitting opposite him.
Ethan grinned. "Good. I'm not surprised anyway, you always seem to be confortable here any time you come around then."
We ate, the TV playing Premier League highlights in the background.
For a moment, it felt like old times. Like old UCLA days.
Then Ethan spoke again, casual as anything:
"By the way…" He twirled his fork, not looking up. "Amanda seems to hate your guts. What happened there?"
The fork froze halfway to my mouth.