The thought sends a warm pulse through my chest. Dangerous. Probably stupid.
Mine.
"Uh oh," JP says quietly.
I follow his gaze to where a cluster of players has gathered near the sideline. Their body language is all wrong for a fun game, hands are fisting and the guys are squaring up. Something's happening.
"What—"
Then I hear it. The speakers are picking up someone's mic, and the words cut through the crowd noise like a knife.
"—fucking fairy can't even catch a ball without making it look gay. What's next, gonna blow kisses to the crowd?"
Everything goes cold.
"Who said that?" Max's voice has an edge I've never heard before.
One of the players, number 87, some guy I don't recognize, is laughing, gesturing at another player. A few people around him look uncomfortable, shifting their weight, not meeting anyone's eyes.
And then Gavin moves.
It happens so fast. One second, 87's laughing at his own joke, the next he's flat on his back with 280 pounds of pissed-off defensive end standing over him.
"Holy shit," someone near us breathes.
The crowd has gone quiet. The mic is still hot, picking up everything.
The guy scrambles to his feet, face red. "What the fuck, Robins?"
"Shut your mouth." Gavin's voice is calm. Terrifyingly calm. "Now."
They are close enough to someone wearing a mic so we can hear everything. It's echoing around the field, but I don't think the player knows that.
"Or what? You gonna tackle me again? Over a joke?"
Another player steps forward, Omar, I think. He gets right in the guys face. "Say it again."
"Say what?"
"What you just said. Say. It. Again."
Instead of backing down, his face twists into something ugly.
"Are you fucking deaf? I said the fairy can't catch. And while we're at it, half this team's gone soft. Too worried about being inclusive and shit to actually play football. It's fucking pathetic."
"You really are a dumb fuck, aren't you?" Omar shakes his head slowly.
The team has gathered now, forming a loose circle around 87. He's finally starting to look nervous, eyes darting from face to face, finding no allies.
"What... what?"
Then the coaches are there. I recognize the Head Coach Daniels and the defensive coordinator, Coach Williams, pushing through the circle of players.
"Bradley." Coach Daniels' voice carries through the mic, calm but cold. "You are a disgrace to this team and the uniform you'rewearing. It's 2025, and if you have your head lodged so far up your ass that you can't see that, then there's nothing else I can teach you."
Bradley's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Leave the field. Now. Wait in my office. We'll discuss your future with this program… or lack thereof, after the exhibition."
