The muffled sound of music still played in my ears when I opened my eyes.
"Armed and Dangerous" by King Von. The beat thumped low and gritty through my headphones, almost in rhythm with the heaviness pressing on my chest. I must've slept with them on all night. The last thing I remembered was Cass Elliot's voice, soft and hopeful.
Now... this.
I stared at the ceiling while the song finished, the lyrics dragging across my foggy thoughts. When it finally ended, I pulled off the headphones and sat up, rubbing my face hard with both hands.
Still no tears. Not one.
You'd think after getting betrayed like that—seeing *her* with *him*—there'd be some kind of breakdown. Screaming. Crying. Something.
But all I felt was… cold.
I got up and moved on autopilot. Washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Showered longer than usual, letting the water run down my back as if it could rinse the memories out. It didn't.
By the time I was dressed in a black tee and khaki cargos, the sun hadn't fully risen. The sky outside was still grey with sleep, and the streets were barely alive.
I grabbed my duffel bag. Cleats inside. Water bottle. Shin guards. No real plan—just instinct.
I needed to move. Kick something. Run until I couldn't think.
I stepped out the front door, hoodie up, music back in—this time just instrumentals. Piano beats, no lyrics. I couldn't take another voice in my head.
The streets of Hounslow were quiet, dew still clinging to the pavements. My footsteps echoed slightly, the whole world still stretching awake.
I kept walking.
And walking.
And thinking.
About last night.
About how I hadn't cried.
About how weird that was.
First heartbreak—and my chest felt like stone. Not shattered, not broken. Just... hardened.
And then, as I turned the corner near the High Street and saw the path that led to the football grounds, I spotted someone up ahead.
Hood up. Familiar slouch. Kicking a stone with every step.
Sam.
The universe had jokes.
I told myself I'd ignore him. That I didn't owe him my voice. That silence was power.
But the closer I got, the heavier my footsteps felt. Every few seconds, thoughts kept slipping in uninvited.
What if I just clipped his leg? A hard tackle—just one.
One bone. A small one. He's got others.
I clenched my jaw and adjusted my grip on the duffel strap.
He didn't notice me yet. Or maybe he did, and just pretended not to.
Good. Let him pretend.
My breath tightened in my chest. I wasn't even sure if I was angry at Sam, Laura, or myself.
Maybe all of us.
Maybe none.
I walked past him, shoulders brushing slightly, refusing to look.
He muttered something under his breath—I didn't catch it. Didn't need to.
All I knew was that my fingers curled tight inside my pockets. I wanted to punch something. Break something. Scream.
But I kept walking.
Just as I was about to pass him fully, I felt a grip wrap around my right wrist.
It was Sam.
"Noah, bro… wait. I'm—"
"I'm sorry. For hiding it from you."
I stopped.
Didn't speak.
I turned and looked straight into his eyes—those same eyes that used to light up when we joked in the locker room, when we celebrated wins together, when we called each other brothers. Now, all I saw was guilt. Panic. Weakness.
And something in me snapped.
Shouldn't people think before they do shit like this?
Shouldn't you think long and hard before stabbing someone like that?
My right leg lifted on its own. My body remembered the Muay Thai drills from a year ago—timing, control, precision.
*Thwack.
A perfect shin kick slammed into the side of his calf.
Sam buckled slightly, his face twisting in pain, but he didn't fall. He limped back, clutching his leg, gasping.
I took a step toward him, voice low, steady.
"I could keep going. Till you can't walk. Till you can't even lace up for a match again."
He looked at me, breathing hard.
"But I won't."
"I won't take away something you love. That's the difference between me and you."