Golden

✶ chapter nine

The blown-up photograph behind Coach's desk had remained unchanged in all the years he'd been at Briarcliff. From the first semester he'd walked in as a freshman to the moment he sat on the other side now as a captain, the faces within had stared at him from the other side, their College Cup proudly held between them.

The players in the picture had long since aged, most of them having started families or businesses or hobbies, and they'd moved on. They'd won the trophy, and their lives had continued as usual, as though they hadn't earned one of the greatest honors one could achieve in college soccer.

Did they remember it at all? Did that day stick out amongst others as an unforgettable one? Or did they only think about it when looking through old photographs, blowing off the dust and trying to recall the memories?

None of them had gone pro. Aiden was sure of this. He'd looked it up, almost as if reassuring himself that they didn't succeed beyond this competition—almost as if it was the proof he needed to convince himself that a professional career was far too unattainable to consider.

In fact, they'd all moved on. Except for one.

Coach looked twenty years younger in the photography, no hint of a belly or graying hairs, but the face was the same. With the kind of eyes that could switch between critical and appraising at a second's notice.

Those same eyes studied him from the other side of the desk, unaware of his thoughts as he rustled the pieces of paper in front of him. In the end, Coach grabbed his clipboard and scanned the preselected pieces of paper.

"How have you been, Collins?" Coach asked.

"Good." Aiden sunk further into the chair. "How have you been, Coach?"

Coach gave him a quick glance. "Great now that we have this winning streak." He dropped his clipboard onto the table with a clatter. "We have a promising team, a great line-up, and we're well on track for qualifying for the College Cup. I couldn't be better. Hell, even your performance this season has been outstanding."

His chest swelled with pride. Although he didn't rely on statistics and analytics to dictate his performance, the stats didn't lie. This season was his best at Briarcliff University yet. "Thanks."

"Keep this up"—Coach wagged his finger at him—"and you'll definitely be nominated for the Hermann Trophy. Again." He shook his head in silent awe. "There's no one in college soccer that has come close to you this season."

"Thank you," Aiden echoed again, his spirits lifting with each ounce of praise. Coach could definitely be rough and harsh, but once you showed signs of success, he was the first to point it out. It was what made him such a good leader over the years. Aiden sometimes wondered if he would've continued on his track of progress without Coach in the picture—if the player he was today was owed entirely to the man across from him.

"You're welcome. Now, we have a lot to talk about today." He peeled a few pages from his clipboard. "We'll talk about formations later on. First, let's discuss the new players. Evan Accola is great, a fantastic midfielder, though he relies an awful lot on possession."

"That's not a bad thing." His mind was only halfway invested in the conversation. He'd zoned out between the words "new players" and "midfielder," and all his brain would allow him to think of was Gabriel. Had Coach really told Gabriel he wouldn't be starting next game? "Some of the best teams had their greatest successes because they thrive on possession. Keeping the ball. Tiki-taka."

"Fair point. He's still making far too many passes back for it to work. I think—"

"Can I ask you something?" Aiden interrupted.