THE CHAMPION'S FORBIDDEN GAME

ISABELLA

The scoreboard showed twenty-three minutes remaining, and we were losing the championship.

NORTHBRIDGE ROVERS WOMEN 0–1 WESTHAVEN UNITED WOMEN.

I stared at the numbers, my chest tightening.

Before today's match, Westhaven sat at the top of the English Women's Premier League with fifty-eight points. We had fifty-seven. One point separated us, and this was the final matchday.

A draw would leave Westhaven champions.

We needed all three points.

One goal would give us a chance. Two could make history.

But Westhaven were determined to keep their advantage.

Their midfield pressed aggressively, cutting off our passing lanes and forcing us into rushed decisions. Every time I received possession, two players closed me down. Their captain, Rebecca Shaw, had clearly been instructed to keep me away from the penalty area.

She was doing an excellent job.

"Isabella!" Chloe Bennett shouted from the left.

I turned just as the ball rolled towards my feet. A Westhaven midfielder charged at me, but I shifted my weight and slipped past her with a quick touch.

The crowd erupted.

For a moment, I saw the opening. Chloe was sprinting down the left, while our striker made a run between the centre-backs.

I could play the safe pass.

Or I could try something more dangerous.

I held the ball for one extra second, searching for the perfect angle.

That was my problem. I always wanted the perfect pass.

The defender recovered and stretched out a leg. I released the ball just before she caught me, but my pass was intercepted.

"Come on, Bella!" Chloe shouted.

I clenched my jaw.

She was right. I had to make quicker decisions.

The referee blew her whistle as Westhaven's goalkeeper prepared to restart play. I glanced towards the stands. Burgundy and white scarves filled the Northbridge section. Supporters stood with their hands clasped, watching every movement.

They knew what was at stake.

So did I.

"Gather around!" Coach Bennett called from the technical area.

We moved towards the touchline during the brief stoppage.

"Listen to me," he said. "We're chasing the game, but we're not abandoning our shape. Isabella, stop waiting for the perfect moment. Move the ball. Chloe, stretch their defence. Make them turn."

I nodded.

"And the rest of you, support the attack. We win this together. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach!"

We returned to our positions.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked across the pitch. Westhaven was comfortable now. They had a goal, a defensive structure and a clock working in their favour.

I wanted to disrupt all three.

The next ten minutes became a battle of patience. I dropped deeper to collect the ball, drew their midfield towards me and switched play to the wings. It was not spectacular, but it forced Westhaven to move.

Then, in the seventy-sixth minute, the opportunity came.

Our right-back won possession and passed to me. I controlled the ball with my first touch, turned away from pressure and spotted Chloe moving into space.

This time, I did not hesitate.

I sent a low pass through the gap between their full-back and centre-back.

"Go!"

Chloe accelerated.

The defender tried to catch her, but Chloe reached the ball first. She pushed it forward, entered the penalty area and struck it across the goalkeeper.

The net rippled.

"GOAL!"

I sprinted towards Chloe as she slid across the grass. Our teammates surrounded us, shouting and laughing.

The scoreboard changed.

NORTHBRIDGE ROVERS WOMEN 1–1 WESTHAVEN UNITED WOMEN.

We were level.

But a draw would still hand Westhaven the trophy.

We needed another goal.

Westhaven immediately pushed forward. Their players knew the stakes as well as we did. They began attacking our right side, forcing our defence to work harder.

With five minutes left, Coach Bennett made a substitution. Fresh legs entered the pitch, and I moved closer to the attacking third.

My lungs burned. My legs felt heavy. Still, I kept moving.

The fourth official raised the board.

Five minutes of added time.

Five minutes to decide whether our season ended in disappointment or history.

I looked at Chloe. She was bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

"One more run," I told her.

She straightened and gave me a tired smile.

"For this trophy? I'll run until I collapse."

Westhaven restarted play. Their midfielder attempted a long pass towards our penalty area, but our centre-back intercepted it and quickly sent the ball forward.

It reached me near the halfway line.

I controlled it and turned.

Two opponents approached.

The first lunged for the ball. I pushed it past her, but the second caught my ankle with a late challenge. Pain shot up my leg. My balance faltered, and I nearly went down.

The referee's whistle stayed silent.

I had half a second to decide whether to stop or keep moving.

I kept moving.

Chloe was making a diagonal run. Our striker was pulling the centre-back towards the near post. The space was there, but a Westhaven defender was already sprinting across to close it.

I waited until she committed, then slipped a pass into the channel.

Chloe ran onto it.

The defender launched herself into a desperate sliding challenge. Her boot swept across the grass, missing the ball by inches as Chloe stretched to keep possession. Their legs collided.

Chloe stumbled but stayed upright.

The goalkeeper rushed forward, narrowing the angle.

"Chloe!" I screamed.

She struck the ball.

It flew past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand and crashed into the far corner.

For one heartbeat, I could not move.

Then the stadium erupted.

I sprinted towards Chloe. She dropped to the grass, and I grabbed her hand, pulling her up as our teammates rushed over.

"Are you all right?" I asked, breathless.

She nodded, still staring at the goal.

The referee pointed towards the centre circle.

The goal stood.

NORTHBRIDGE ROVERS WOMEN 2–1 WESTHAVEN UNITED WOMEN.

We were champions.

Westhaven tried one final attack, but our defenders held their line. When the referee finally blew the whistle, I dropped to my knees.

It was over.

We had done it.

Five years of difficult training sessions, rejected opportunities, financial uncertainty and people telling us that women's football would never attract enough attention.

We had answered them on the pitch.

Coach Bennett rushed towards us, his usual stern expression replaced by an enormous smile. Chloe pulled me into a hug, and I laughed, still struggling to catch my breath.

Then the trophy presentation began.

When the silver trophy was placed in my hands, I raised it above my head. Burgundy and white scarves filled the air as the Northbridge supporters celebrated our first league title.

I looked at the scoreboard one last time.

Two goals. Three points. Champions.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe that Northbridge Rovers could become something extraordinary.

As the celebrations continued, I noticed a man standing near the tunnel.

He wasn't cheering.

He wore a dark suit and held a phone against his ear. His eyes remained fixed on me, even as the rest of the stadium celebrated.

I frowned.

He ended his call, slipped the phone into his pocket and disappeared through the tunnel.

"What's wrong?" Chloe asked.

"Nothing," I replied, although I wasn't convinced.

A staff member approached to tell me the press conference would begin shortly. I nodded and followed my teammates towards the dressing room.

We were champions.

Tonight, that was all that mattered.

Or so I thought.

As I entered the dressing room, my phone vibrated inside my kit bag.

An unknown number.

One message.

ENJOY YOUR TROPHY, ISABELLA. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOUR CLUB IS ABOUT TO LOSE.

I read it twice.

Then a second message appeared.

AND YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL ABOUT WHO YOU TRUST.

ISABELLA

The message remained on my phone long after I had stopped reading it.

ENJOY YOUR TROPHY, ISABELLA. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOUR CLUB IS ABOUT TO LOSE.

I sat on the edge of my hotel bed, still wearing the tracksuit from the celebrations. My teammates were downstairs, enjoying the evening, but I had lost the appetite to join them.

Whoever had sent the message knew my name. They knew I was celebrating. More importantly, they knew something about Northbridge that I didn't.

I checked the number again.

No name. No profile picture. Nothing.

I typed a reply.

Who is this?

I stared at the screen before deleting it.

There was no point inviting a stranger to frighten me further.

Instead, I took a screenshot and sent it to Chloe.

ME: Have you received anything strange tonight?

Her response came almost immediately.

CHLOE: Apart from your terrible dancing? No.

I almost smiled.

ME: I'm serious.

CHLOE: What's happened?

I forwarded the screenshot.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

CHLOE: That's creepy. Tell Coach Bennett tomorrow. Don't respond to it.

I placed the phone beside me.

Perhaps it was a jealous supporter. Perhaps someone wanted attention after our victory. There were plenty of explanations.

Still, I couldn't ignore the feeling that the message had been meant for me specifically.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Five years ago, I would have given anything to receive a message congratulating me on becoming a professional footballer.

Back then, nobody was sending me warnings.

They were telling me to give up.

I was twenty years old when I first walked into Northbridge's training ground.

I had arrived carrying a worn sports bag, two pairs of boots and a confidence that was much bigger than my actual experience.

I had played football since childhood, mostly in local youth competitions and development programmes. I knew I had talent. I also knew talent alone would not pay my bills.

The women's team was looking for young players, and I had been invited to a trial.

For three days, I gave everything I had.

I arrived early, stayed late and pushed myself through every drill. Whenever the coaches asked for volunteers, my hand went up.

On the final afternoon, I was called into a small office.

The man sitting behind the desk barely looked at me.

"You're technically gifted, Isabella," he said, examining my assessment sheet. "But professional football is demanding. We need players who can make decisions quickly and withstand pressure."

"I can do that."

He raised his eyes.

"Confidence is good. Overconfidence isn't."

I swallowed.

He continued. "There are other candidates with more experience. We may not have a place for you."

I remember gripping the straps of my bag.

"Can I have another opportunity to prove myself?"

He shook his head.

The meeting lasted less than five minutes.

I walked out feeling as though someone had taken the future I had imagined and thrown it away.

Outside the building, I sat on a low concrete wall and tried not to cry.

That was when Daniel Mercer found me.

He had been one of the senior coaches overseeing the trial sessions. He was not the man who had rejected me, but he had watched me play.

"You're still here?" he asked.

I wiped my face quickly.

"Just waiting for my ride."

He glanced at the empty car park.

"Of course."

I looked away.

He sat beside me.

"That pass you played during the second session," he said. "The one that split the midfield. Why didn't you try it again today?"

I shrugged. "I didn't get the chance."

"No. You didn't create the chance."

His words stung because I knew he was right.

He studied me for a moment.

"You have vision. You see things other players don't. But sometimes you hold the ball too long because you're afraid of making the wrong decision."

I said nothing.

"Don't let one rejection convince you that you don't belong here."

I turned towards him.

"Can you help me?"

He stood up and adjusted his jacket.

"Come back tomorrow morning. Six o'clock. Bring your boots."

That was how everything began.

For the next three months, Mercer worked with me privately. He pushed me through exhausting drills, challenged my decisions and demanded more than I thought I could give.

He never praised me just to make me feel better.

When I made a poor pass, he made me repeat the exercise. When I hesitated, he stopped the drill and asked what I had seen.

Slowly, I improved.

Eventually, Northbridge offered me a professional contract.

It wasn't a glamorous deal. The salary was modest, and the club's facilities were far from impressive. But my name was on the contract.

I signed it with shaking hands.

I had become a professional footballer.

Daniel Mercer was the first person I called.

He congratulated me and told me not to waste the opportunity.

For a while, he remained part of my life. Then, without warning, he left Northbridge.

There were rumours about disagreements with the club's management, but nobody gave me a clear explanation. My messages went unanswered. My calls were ignored.

Eventually, I stopped trying.

Five years had passed since then.

I had not seen him once.

My phone vibrated, pulling me back into the hotel room.

I reached for it, expecting another message from Chloe.

Instead, an unfamiliar number appeared.

UNKNOWN: Congratulations on the championship, Isabella.

I sat upright.

The number was different from the one that had sent the earlier threat.

ME: Who is this?

A reply arrived.

UNKNOWN: Someone who remembers how hard you fought to get your place at Northbridge.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

ME: Identify yourself.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then another message appeared.

UNKNOWN: Daniel Mercer.

I stared at the screen.

I read the name again, hoping I had misunderstood it.

Daniel Mercer.

The man who had helped me become a professional footballer. The man who had disappeared from my life without an explanation.

Why was he contacting me now?

ME: Where have you been?

His reply took longer this time.

DANIEL: There are things I should have told you years ago.

I stood and walked towards the window. London stretched beyond the hotel, its lights shining against the dark sky.

ME: Why contact me now?

The typing indicator appeared.

Then it disappeared.

Finally, my phone vibrated.

DANIEL: Because what happened to this club five years ago is connected to what is happening now.

My stomach tightened.

I thought about the anonymous warning. The man near the tunnel. The strange feeling that our championship victory had somehow attracted unwanted attention.

ME: What do you know?

This time, his response came quickly.

DANIEL: Not over the phone. We need to meet privately.

I hesitated.

Part of me wanted to demand answers immediately. Another part remembered how easily he had walked out of my life.

I had learned not to trust people simply because they had once helped me.

ME: Why should I trust you?

The answer appeared almost instantly.

DANIEL: You shouldn't. Not until you hear what I have to say.

I stared at those words.

At least he wasn't pretending that nothing had happened.

A final message followed.

DANIEL: Tomorrow. Seven o'clock. Come alone. I'll send you the location in the morning. There is something you need to see before the people responsible realise I've contacted you.

I read it twice.

Then I looked towards the door, suddenly aware of how quiet the hotel room had become.

Five years ago, Daniel Mercer had given me a chance when nobody else wanted me.

Now he was telling me that the club I had just helped make champions was hiding something.

I wanted answers.

But I also wanted to know whether the man who had once saved my career was now leading me into danger.

My phone vibrated one last time.

DANIEL: Isabella, please. This time, don't let them silence you.

I slowly lowered the phone.

For the first time that night, I wasn't thinking about the trophy.

I was thinking about the man who had disappeared five years ago.

And why he had suddenly come back.

ISABELLA

At six forty-five the following morning, I was already standing outside a small café in North London.

I had barely slept.

Daniel Mercer's messages had replayed in my mind all night. Five years of silence, and suddenly he wanted to meet me. He claimed something happening at Northbridge was connected to events from the past, but he had refused to explain anything over the phone.

I checked the street again.

No familiar face.

I was wearing dark jeans, a black jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over my forehead. I had told Chloe I needed some fresh air. I hadn't mentioned the meeting.

Daniel had specifically asked me to come alone.

That alone made me uncomfortable.

At seven precisely, a black car stopped outside the café. The passenger door opened, and a man stepped out.

He was older than I remembered. His hair had thinned slightly, and the lines around his eyes were more pronounced. But I recognised him immediately.

Daniel Mercer.

My former coach. The man who had helped me earn my first professional contract. The man who had disappeared without giving me a proper goodbye.

He approached slowly.

"Isabella."

I folded my arms.

"You have some explaining to do."

His eyes moved over my face, and for a moment, something like regret crossed his expression.

"I know."

"Do you? Because you seem to have forgotten how to answer a phone."

He looked down briefly.

"Can we talk inside?"

"That depends on what you have to say."

He didn't argue. He opened the door and allowed me to enter first.

We chose a table near the back. I kept my jacket on and placed my phone beside my cup.

"I didn't come here to catch up," I said.

"I know."

"Then tell me why you disappeared."

He stared at his hands. His fingers were trembling slightly.

"When I left Northbridge, I was investigating financial irregularities involving the club's development programme. Money was being allocated for facilities, equipment and player development, but some of the promised improvements never happened."

I stared at him.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You were young. You had just signed your first professional contract. I didn't want you caught in something you didn't understand."

I let out a bitter laugh.

"So you decided the best way to protect me was to vanish?"

His jaw tightened.

"No. I made a terrible decision."

"You could have called. You could have sent one message. You could have told me you were leaving."

"I know."

"You were the first person who believed I could make it here. Do you understand what it felt like when you disappeared? I kept wondering whether I'd done something wrong. Whether I'd disappointed you. Whether you had simply changed your mind about me."

His expression crumpled.

"Isabella, you never disappointed me."

"Then why did you leave me to believe that?"

He opened his mouth, but no answer came.

For the first time since entering the café, I saw how much the question hurt him. He looked away, pressing his lips together as though he was struggling to control his emotions.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should have trusted you enough to tell you the truth."

I looked towards the window.

His apology did not erase five years of silence.

"Who was involved?" I asked.

"I can't give you names without evidence. But I have reason to believe the same network is operating again."

"Operating where?"

"At Northbridge."

My stomach tightened.

"Explain."

Daniel took a breath. "The club has received another major development commitment. Equipment, transport, academy development. Things the women's team desperately needs."

I frowned.

"How much?"

"One point two million pounds."

I stared at him.

That was a substantial amount of money, especially for a women's team that had spent years fighting to keep its facilities operational.

"Who provided it?"

"Brightline Sports. The money is administered through the Sterling Community Foundation."

I had heard of the Sterling family. Their business interests were everywhere in professional football.

"Are you saying they stole it?"

"I'm saying I have reason to believe some of the money isn't reaching the people it was meant to help."

I shook my head.

"Why would anyone risk that? The club has just won the league. We need investment, not another scandal."

"That's precisely why you need to be careful."

He reached into his jacket and placed a folded sheet of paper on the table.

I didn't touch it immediately.

"What is that?"

"An old list of payments connected to the programme I investigated."

I unfolded it.

There were company names, dates and several amounts. Some were unfamiliar. Others appeared to be suppliers I had heard mentioned around the club.

Then I saw a name that made my heart drop.

HAYES LOGISTICS LTD.

I read it again.

No. It couldn't be.

"Why is my brother's company on this list?"

Daniel Mercer watched my face carefully.

"Your brother, Daniel Hayes, was listed as a logistics provider."

I pushed the paper away.

"That's impossible."

"I don't know whether he understood what he was signing."

"Daniel Hayes runs a legitimate business. He transports equipment. That's what he does."

"I'm not accusing him of stealing anything."

"Then why is his company here?"

"I only know that its name appears in the records."

I felt heat rise behind my eyes. My brother had his own struggles, but he had worked hard to build his business. He had helped me when I needed support, even when he could barely afford to do so.

The thought that his company might be connected to something dishonest frightened me more than I wanted to admit.

And what if the investigation damaged his reputation?

What if people dragged his name through the mud because of a transaction he barely understood?

"Did you contact him?" I asked.

"Not yet."

"Good. Don't."

"Isabella-"

"No. You don't get to walk back into my life after five years and start making accusations about my family."

"I'm not making accusations."

"Then what are you doing?"

He leaned forward, his voice almost breaking.

"Trying to stop you from being hurt by something I failed to stop years ago."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

I wanted to believe him. A part of me still remembered the man who had stayed after training to help me improve. But another part remembered every unanswered call and every birthday that passed without a word.

I could not separate the two versions of him.

"Give me something I can verify," I said at last.

Daniel hesitated.

"I have an original document connected to one of the payments. It doesn't match the version submitted to the club."

"What document?"

"A collection confirmation. It was later presented as proof that equipment had been delivered and installed."

"Who changed it?"

"I don't know yet. But I believe the alteration matters."

He glanced towards the café entrance.

His expression changed.

A man in a grey coat had entered. He paused near the counter, looked towards the back of the café and then turned away.

Daniel lowered his voice.

"We shouldn't stay here."

I looked at the man again.

"Do you know him?"

"Not personally."

"Then why are you worried?"

"Because I've seen him outside my office twice this week."

Daniel's hand tightened around his coffee cup. His earlier composure had disappeared.

"Listen carefully. Don't confront anyone at the club. Don't discuss this with the board. And don't tell anyone I've contacted you until we know who we can trust."

I gave a bitter laugh.

"You disappear for five years, show me a list with my brother's company on it, and now you want me to keep secrets?"

"I'm asking you to be cautious."

"You're asking me to trust you."

He looked directly into my eyes. There was fear there, but also something heavier.

"I know I have no right to ask that of you. But I need you to understand something. I didn't leave because I stopped caring. I left because I was afraid of what would happen if I stayed."

I studied his face.

"Afraid of whom?"

He hesitated.

"That's what I'm still trying to establish."

We left the café separately. Daniel walked towards his car while I headed in the opposite direction.

I kept looking over my shoulder until I reached the main road.

My phone vibrated.

A message from Chloe.

CHLOE: Coach wants everyone at the training ground tomorrow. Apparently, we've got a meeting about the new season.

I typed a quick reply.

ME: I'll be there.

Then I opened the photograph of the document Daniel had sent before our meeting. I enlarged the image and studied the company names again.

Hayes Logistics Ltd.

My brother's business.

I wanted to believe there was a simple explanation. I needed there to be one.

But as I put my phone away, another notification appeared.

It was from the unknown number that had threatened me the previous night.

UNKNOWN: We told you to be careful about who you trust.

My steps slowed.

A second message followed.

UNKNOWN: You should have stayed away from Daniel Mercer.

I stopped walking.

Someone knew about our meeting.

And whoever it was had been watching me.

I looked back towards the café, but Daniel's car was already gone.

For five years, I had wondered why he abandoned me.

Now I was beginning to wonder whether his disappearance had been the only thing keeping me safe.