The whistle comes, but it’s too little, too late.
I roll onto my side, gasping, grass sticking to the sweat on my face as I try to push myself up. My ankle screams the second I put weight on it, buckling uselessly beneath me. Pain lances sharp and hot, and I know before I even test it again that I’m not running this off. The ref glances over, lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave, then turns his back and jogs toward midfield like I’m background noise instead of the player who just got flattened.
And then there’s Mads.
He’s suddenly there, storming past the sideline before anyone can stop him, fury written across every line of his body. “Are you blind?” he roars, voice carrying across the whole damn field. “She just got taken out—open your eyes!”
The ref tries to wave him off, but he’s relentless, pointing, shouting, daring anyone to pretend what just happened was clean. Teammates are tugging at his arm, the other team’s bench is jeering, and still he doesn’t budge. His focus is all on me, fire in his eyes, seconds away from picking me up and hauling me off himself.
The crowd loves it—half of them booing, half of them chanting his name.
I’m upright but barely, ankle screaming every time I shift my weight. I shake my head, trying to laugh through the pain. Because, of course, Mads would be Mads in an instance like this one.
Mayson rushes over, slipping an arm under mine before I can stumble again. The stadium noise swells around us, a wall of chaos, but all I can feel is the surge in me.
Pride in every ruthless second Mads spends berating the ref and the hungrier edge of wanting him for it.
The ref finally snaps, pointing toward the sideline and motioning for Mads to get off the field. Coach Carmichael’s there in seconds, dragging him back by the arm, shouting over the crowd. My teammates form a wall around me as the trainer jogs over, and I can still hear Mads’ voice echoing across the pitch, curses swallowed by the roar of the stands.
After the trainer fixes me up, I finish the match running on nothing but adrenaline, body strung tight, every second dragging. The referee lifts the whistle to his mouth, three sharp blasts cutting through the noise. Game over. The scoreboard stays frozen at 1–0—our goal is the only one all night. The Vipers win.
The crowd erupts, players throwing their arms up, some collapsing straight to the grass in relief. After ninety minutes of tackles, missed chances, and bruises that’ll bloom by morning, we’ve held them off. One goal was enough.
By the time I limp back into the locker room, my ankle taped tight, the noise from the stadium feels like a dream. The girls are buzzing, replaying saves and tackles, high-fiving through exhaustion. My jersey clings with sweat, grass stains streaking down my legs, but the ache in my body can’t touch the feeling of satisfaction.
I sink onto the bench, letting my head fall back against the cinderblock wall. Across the room, Mayson’s already dissecting plays, Lucy peels off her jersey and immediately starts dancing, hips shaking like the scoreboard was all her doing. Sam’s humming something under her breath as she shoves gear into her bag. Normal postgame chaos.
But through it all, I can feel him.
Mads is outside somewhere, pacing, probably still arguing with Carmichael, still furious at the ref, still burning with all the fire I saw when he charged onto the field.
My chest tightens, a mix of pain and something else I can’t name. Because the truth is, I’ve never had anyone lose their mind on my behalf before. Not like that.
I close my eyes, let the noise of my team wash over me, and try not to think about the fact that my ankle throbs in time with my pulse—and that Mads Keller just made it impossible to pretend this thing brewing between us is casual.
Chapter 14
Mads
The campus is quiet, which is expected on a weekend. The kind of overcast chill that settles into your bones even if you’re dressed for it, with damp leaves stuck to the pavement and steam rising from vents in sharp, ghostlike bursts. A few students cut across the quad with their hoods up, earbuds in, coffee cups clutched in their hands.
Blake walks beside me, sleeves half-pulled over her hands, her rust-colored jumper hanging loose over the waistband of her jeans. The hem of her shirt’s uneven where it’s caught at her hip, and somehow that—out of everything—is what’s frying my brain today.
She looks perfect. Frustratingly so.
“Do you really think Dead Channel means anything?” she asks, stepping over a cracked bit of pavement, tone edged with doubt.
I shrug, shifting my backpack higher. “Could.”
I wish I had a better answer for her.
She exhales, shaking her head. “I honestly didn’t think we’d get this far.”
I glance at her. “That’s what you get for dating someone who organizes their hacking tools by level of federal offense.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make my stomach flutter a little.
“Dating, Keller?” she asks, slightly staggered, not looking at me.
