“Not your mate.” He steps in close enough that I catch the sharp rise of his chest. “Why don’t you fuck off and wait for your comeback parade?”
Then he’s gone—jogging back onto the pitch, ball tucked under his arm.
I say nothing and shove the headset back on, folding my arms across my chest to keep from putting my fist through the gear cart.
Beside me, Coach shifts, muttering to his assistant through the headset. His jaw clenches so tight it could splinter bone.
It’s unmistakable. We’re not losing this game because of injuries or bad calls. We’re crashing because the guy at the helm stopped giving a damn the second he heard I was replacing him.
I glance across the field—Tyson’s team huddled near midfield, confident and smug. Tyson himself standing loose in the pocket, stretching out his neck.
Motherfucker.
My fingers tighten around the rolled towel in my hand, knuckles popping. I want on that pitch. Every muscle in my body is screaming to move. To fix it. To fight for it.
Watching my team drown while that smug piece of shit coasts toward victory is eating me alive.
Coach folds his arms across his chest, eyes on the field. “We lose this, we’re done. Out. You know that.”
I nod once. “Well aware.”
Assistant Coach Macklin steps in closer, voice low, more direct. “We’ve cleared you. The medical team has signed off. We haven’t pulled the trigger yet—not because we’re indecisive but because we didn’t have to. But with how he’s playing, we need you out there, Sebring.”
I don’t answer right away. My eyes track Declan on the pitch, where he’s launched another kick that dies five meters short and veers wide. Tyson snags it with an ease that makes me want to snap something.
“How are you feeling?” Macklin asks.
My jaw tics. “Stronger.”
“Strong enough?”
I exhale hard. “Close but not a hundred percent. Maybe eighty-five. My head’s good, legs are decent, but I’m not back at my best yet. I’m still favoring the right.”
Coach doesn’t flinch. “Your fifty percent is better than most guys’ hundred. We’re not asking for eighty minutes. Not even forty. I just need you to drag this team out of the grave and give us a fucking heartbeat.”
The tension coils tight in my gut because I want to say yes. I want to strip off this headset and run onto the pitch like I never left.
I press a hand over my heart, over the ink that is Magnolia on my chest.
“You go in and show everyone why we built this damn team around you.”
The crowd roars, and I look up in time to see Tyson break the line. Declan flails in defense. Our fullback misses the angle. And Tyson crosses the try line like he owns it.
He turns, points straight at the sideline—at me—and grins.
Something detonates in my chest.
I rip the headset off and drop it to the ground. “Yeah, I’m going in.”
I pull off the warmup top and shove my mouthguard in. The stadium’s already buzzing, but when I jog toward the sideline ref and peel off my bib—ready to sub in—the energy shifts.
A ripple rolls through the crowd, thunder on the verge of a storm.
The announcer’s voice cracks over the speaker. “Sebring’s taking the pitch.”
The crowd goes feral.
High above the chaos, my beloved beauty stands at the glass—my anchor in the storm. Distance hides her face, but I know she’s watching. I press two fingers to my lips and stretch them toward her. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s a reckoning, and she’s the reason I’ll win.
