The collision

James Morgan always arrived early.

It wasn’t because he needed the extra time to warm up—he was already the best striker on the team, and he knew it. No, he came early because it gave him the field to himself. No noise, no shouting. Just the clean snap of boot against ball, the thud of it hitting the net, and the feeling—brief but golden—that this whole place belonged to him.

But today, as he jogged past the changing rooms, his rhythm faltered.

Someone was already out there.

It wasn’t one of the football lads. The figure on the far end of the field was broader, built like a tree trunk in motion. The kit was wrong, too—no bright red jersey, no shin pads. Just muddy boots and a navy shirt with thick white stripes.

Rugby.

James sighed. The pitch was meant to be theirs on Tuesdays. He considered turning back, but his pride had other ideas. Instead, he dropped his bag by the goalpost and started stretching, making sure the other boy saw him.

If the guy felt James’s glare, he didn’t show it. He was doing something weird—practicing passes alone, tossing the oval ball into the air and catching it like it was a dance.

James gave it five minutes. When the silence stretched too long, he gave in.

“You know this is the football team’s slot, right?”

The boy turned. His hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead. He blinked, caught somewhere between surprised and cautious.

“I thought it was shared now,” he said quietly. “Coach said… something about the schedule changing.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Since when?”

The boy shrugged. “This week, I guess.”

James hated being wrong, but he hated looking petty more. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Fine. Just… stay out of the penalty box.”

The other boy gave a nod and turned back to his drills.

James tried to refocus, lining up his shots. But his aim was off. His footwork stiff. And every time the rugby kid passed the ball to himself, James found his eyes drifting across the field.

The boy moved like he belonged here too.

After ten minutes, James caved again. “You’re pretty good,” he called, surprising even himself.

The boy looked over. This time, a smile tugged at his lips. “Thanks.”

“I’m James,” he added, brushing grass off his hands.

“I know,” the boy said. “You scored that hat trick against Barton last term.”

James blinked. “Yeah. And you are?”

“Ethan,” he said. “Ethan Rowe.”

They stood in the soft quiet for a second, the space between them filled with nothing but the wind and the faint shout of a teacher’s whistle from across campus.

James offered a half-grin. “Wanna try kicking a real ball?”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Only if you try passing a proper one.”

They met at the center line, swapping sports—and maybe, just maybe, the start of something else too.

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