The whistle shrieks, and the scrum sets. I drop into position as if I never left. Ball in, and we break. I move fast, clean, with precision.
I fake the carry, drag two defenders—including Tyson—and pop a no-look pass off my hip to Jonathan sprinting the blindside. He’s already in full stride when it hits his chest.
Their defense is too late, and the crowd detonates. But I don’t let myself enjoy it. No celebration. No grin. Not even a nod. Because this isn’t a victory. Not yet. This is a war.
We line up again. Tyson keeps barking at me, at the ref, at his own team. He’s unraveling, and he doesn’t even see it.
“You’re still limping.” Sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.
“And you’re still swinging and missing.”
He charges me midway through the second half—late. Desperate. Dirty. Tries to clip me on the pivot, take out the left same as last time. But I’ve been expecting it.
I drop my shoulder and sidestep—fast enough he misses by inches and eats turf.
The crowd loses it. Gasps. Shouts. Cheers like thunder crashing off the grandstands.
Even Coach is grinning now. And then it happens––we draw a penalty and reset fast.
Ball comes to me on the switch. I dummy wide, flick inside to Bradley who is tearing through the pocket, but he doesn’t stop––straight through the line past the fullback under the posts.
Tie game.
And suddenly this team—my team—is alive again. Hungry. Feral.
I walk back to the line, breathing hard, blood buzzing through my body as it remembers what it means to live for this.
The crowd’s a living roar, but under it, everything goes quiet. Too quiet.
Something shifts in Tyson’s stance—an extra coil of muscle, a second too long eyeing the gap. It’s not strategy. It’s intent.
He’s not going for the ball. He’s coming for me.
I see it before it happens. The angle, the lean, the look in his eye. This is the play he’s been waiting for. His last shot to break me a last time.
He takes off like a missile. I don’t back off. I meet him head-on. Full speed.
We collide, and time folds in on itself—bones, blood, breath all surging toward one brutal moment. But I’m not only bracing for impact. I twist––intentionally––at the perfect moment. Shift my weight, rotate my hips, absorb his momentum and redirect it.
He hits me, but it’s not clean. It’s off-balance. And his own force betrays him.
Snap.
A sick, wet crunch echoes over the field.
Tyson crumples like a dropped puppet. He screams—loud, ragged, real. The type of scream that shuts down stadiums.
All at once, the air gets sucked from the world. Fans frozen. Players stilled. Whistle lost somewhere in the haze.
He’s not moving. One look at his leg and I know why—it’s bent sideways at the hip, off-track and jarring, as if his body forgot which way it was supposed to bend.
The ref calls for medics. Someone shouts for a stretcher as I stand over him. Breathing hard. Adrenaline thundering. And it hits all at once—everything he’s done to me. Everything he’s done to Magnolia.
The whistle shrills through the noise, piercing and urgent. Medics burst onto the field, sprinting with the stretcher. Tyson’s moaning—loud, guttural, raw. One hand claws at the ground as he tries to get up, attempting to undo what has happened, but he’s not going anywhere.
I stand over him, unmoving.
I should feel something. Guilt. Relief. Maybe even pride. But there’s only silence inside me.
