His eyes find mine, wild and glossed with pain, as he realizes he’s not the predator anymore. He opens his mouth and chokes on his own breath. “You?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I lean down, voice low and even. “Happy early retirement.”
Then I straighten and walk away.
No glance back to see how bad it is or if they’ve stabilized his leg. With every step of distance, the past sloughs off me.
The crowd is roaring again, but it’s far away––muffled and blurred as though I’m moving underwater. Coaches are shouting. The ref’s still blowing the whistle. Someone’s calling my name.
I keep walking—neither triumphant nor ashamed. There’s no pride, but regret doesn’t touch me either. Only a strange stillness, something inside me settled. The last page of this chapter has written itself and what’s left isn’t emotion—it’s resolve.
By the time I hit the sideline, the stadium’s electric, every spectator caught somewhere between shock and awe.
Coach doesn’t say a word. Macklin glances at me, jaw tight. He knows better than to ask if I’m okay. The trainers hover, someone pressing a water bottle into my hand. I take it, but I don’t drink.
The announcer’s voice breaks through the buzz, voice cracking like static. “Sebring’s back, and he’s not here to play safe.”
I sit on the bench, elbows to knees, still catching my breath even though the game is on pause, even though the stadium’s going wild. My pulse hasn’t slowed, and my hands won’t unclench.
Revenge. Justice. Survival.
And I’m not sorry.
When the game ends, the whistle blows, sharp and final. The stadium erupts, not just with noise but with belief.
We did it. The scoreboard confirms it. We came back and won.
The locker room explodes the second I step through the door.
It’s thunder and heat and an energy that crackles off the skin. Teammates are shouting over each other, slapping my back, bumping shoulders, yelling my name.
“Sebring! The Wall! You mad bastard—holy shit, that was a takedown.”
Someone shoves a towel at me, someone else pops a beer and hands it over. There’s music playing—loud, chaotic, bass thumping. It matches the pulse still hammering under my skin.
I’m buzzing because I took it back. I showed every single one of them who the fuck I am. Who I’ve always been.
No one handed this to me. I earned it.
Coach walks past, doesn’t stop, doesn’t make a big deal—but his hand clamps once on my shoulder, firm and brief. “Nice work, Sebring.” Which, in coach terms, is a standing ovation.
Macklin is grinning, arms crossed, nodding. “That’s how you take your damn job back.”
I shake my head, half-smiling. “Didn’t feel like a job out there.”
He shrugs. “That’s because it never was. It’s who you are. It’s in your blood.”
More backslaps, more noise, a whirl of heat and motion. I let it wash over me.
Declan steps in front of me. He’s still sweating, lip cracked, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone. But he holds out a hand. I stare at it for a beat, and take it.
He grips hard. “I see it now. Why they want you back so bad and why it’s time for me to get out of your way.”
I arch a brow, surprised.
He shakes his head, voice low. “I thought I could be what they needed, but this team doesn’t run on a system. It runs on you, and I can’t be that. So it’s time I find a team that fits the way I play.”
