The Quiet One

24 hours

The first day of training as captain felt... different. Not overwhelming, not intimidating, just... weighty in a new way. Sarina had briefed me beforehand — it wasn't about being perfect; it was about presence, leadership, and knowing when to trust the team around you.

Stepping onto the pitch, I felt the familiar buzz of energy from the squad. The girls were warm, excited to have me here in this new role, but there was a noticeable shift: I wasn't just Jae the player anymore. I was Jae the captain.

"Alright, let's ease into it," Sarina said, her voice calm. "You're leading today, but I don't want to burn anyone out. Focus on communication, motivation, and organization."

I nodded, taking a deep breath. Lucy jogged over, grinning. "First day captain, and already looking like you own the place. Relax, you've got this."

The session was light — some passing drills, tactical walkthroughs, small-sided games — enough to feel the rhythm without exhausting anyone. Every so often, I'd call out encouragement, guide positioning, and offer little pointers. It felt natural, but a subtle ache tugged at me: Leah wasn't here. Normally, I'd text her a quick update, hear her laugh at something I said, or just share a grin. Now, I had to manage without that constant tether.

By the time we finished, I wiped sweat from my forehead and pulled out my phone. Facetime. Leah.

"Hey," her warm face filled the screen, her smile brighter than I'd expected.

"Hey," I whispered, relief flooding me. "You're glowing, even through the screen."

Leah chuckled. "I'm glowing because I see you in your captain mode. I can almost hear the team cheering."

"I... it's different," I admitted softly. "Everything feels... quieter without you here."

"I know," she said, eyes soft. "It'll be weird for both of us. But you're doing amazing, Jae. You've got this. Make me proud."

"I will," I promised. "I just... I miss you. And I miss Eli having you around too."

"I know," she whispered. "We'll see each other soon. I'll be cheering, always."

She ended the Facetime with a soft "love you," and the screen went black.

Elijah, sitting on the floor next to me, immediately let out a wail. Tiny arms flailed. "Noooo! Mama!" he cried, his face scrunching up, little fists pounding the air.

I froze. His first real tantrum. I scooped him up, holding him close, rocking him gently. "I know, buddy... I know. She's not here right now, but she'll be back. I promise."

He hiccuped and cried against my shoulder, and I realized — I felt it too. Everything did feel different without Leah. The apartment felt emptier, quieter, slower. It wasn't just the absence of her voice; it was the subtle, grounding presence that made all the chaos of life manageable.

After a while, Elijah settled, but his eyes still searched for her, and I stroked his hair, whispering, "I know, little man... we'll figure it out together."

By the evening, I decided we needed a little normalcy. I set up a movie on the laptop in our room, dimmed the lights, and arranged pillows on the floor. Elijah crawled over happily, plopping onto a cushion with a contented sigh.

"Movie night, buddy," I whispered. He gurgled, kicking his legs. I handed him a soft blanket and a small plush toy.

The opening credits rolled, and he rested his head against me, tiny hands clutching the blanket. I smiled down at him, brushing his hair back. "It's just us tonight, little man. Just us."

As the movie played, I realized how much this little routine mattered. No team drills, no Facetime updates, no responsibilities beyond keeping him happy and calm. Just quiet moments, laughter, and warmth.

And though Leah wasn't here, the love that connected all three of us — Jae, Elijah, and Leah — filled the room. It was different, yes. But it was also ours.