OFFSIDE HEARTS: His Dr. Anchor

Ethan

Sixty thousand voices shake the stadium, yet the world around me has gone eerily silent.

Blood beats a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. Sweat drips from my messy dark hair, stinging my hazel eyes as I glare down at Julian Vance. The kid is twenty-one, arrogant, and standing entirely too close on the pitch.

He tears the ball from my hands. "I'll take it."

"No Julian, give it back..." Before I can stop him, the referee has already blown the whistle. I am the captain. The designated penalty taker. But Julian physically shoves past me, snatches the ball from my hands, and takes the shot himself just to tie my score for the league's Golden Boot.

The net ripples. The crowd explodes. Julian has scored. And instead of celebrating with the team, he walks straight over to me. He smiles, ensuring the television cameras only see his perfect, marketable profile.

"Your time is done, old man," Julian whispers, his voice dripping with absolute venom. "Clinging to your mother's ring won't save you. Next month, I'll be the one wearing Number 9."

Something inside me snaps. My father's voice. Endless rehab sessions. Another headline calling me overrated. The silver ring bites into my chest. The relentless pressure surges forward. The late-night lonely runs. The suffocating fear of becoming ordinary and forgotten.

It all explodes in a single, blinding second. The moment he mentions my mother.

I don't think about my multimillion-pound sponsorships. I don't care about the global brands tied to my face.

I grip Julian by his collar and slam my fist straight into his arrogant jaw.

The impact rattles up my arm. Julian crashes into the grass, clutching his face and groaning for the cameras.

The stadium goes dead silent. Then, chaos explodes.

Flash! Flash! Flash!

The camera lights from the press box blind me. The referee sprints over, his face flushed with anger as he pulls a card from his pocket and thrusts it high into the air. Red. An immediate ejection.

I don't wait for my teammates to pull me back, not even a glance at the manager screaming on the sidelines.

I slide my fingers over the silver ring hanging from the chain around my neck, spinning it hard. As I turn my back on the pitch and walk straight down the player tunnel.

"I am the best striker in the world. And I have just destroyed my life on live international television."

The away locker room is freezing, but my skin feels like it's on fire.

I rip off my sweat-soaked jersey and fling it against the wall. It hits the tile with a heavy, wet thud.

I sit on the wooden bench, burying my face in my hands. The silence here is deafening compared to the roar of the crowd outside.

"If you're useful, people stay," my father's cold voice echoes in my head, the ghost of my childhood. "If you're not, they leave."

Twenty-four goals this season. One punch. One mistake. That's all they'll remember. The headlines will call me a monster. A ticking time bomb. My sponsors will drop me by midnight, and the board will finally have the excuse they need to replace me with Julian.

I hear footsteps echoing down the concrete hallway outside.

I don't look up. I brace myself for the storm, my fingers gripping my hair as the heavy locker room door begins to click open.