He claps my shoulder—a reminder of authority, but a connection too. Then he walks off, footsteps echoing down concrete, leaving me alone with the ringing silence. A weight settles on my chest, heavy and suffocating.
I’m dressed, bag packed. The truck is a cold sanctuary, silent and dark. I slide into the driver’s seat, lean my head back against the headrest, and close my eyes.
Benched.
The word echoes.
I failed him. I lost control. I lost my spot.
All because I couldn't stand Rylan's mouth on her name.
I look down at my right hand, resting on the steering wheel.
I flex my fingers. The knuckles stark white against the dark leather.
This is the hand that just pinned a man to a metal locker by his throat. The same hand that threatened to crush Rylan’s windpipe because he dared to speak about her.
My fingers curl into a fist, tight and shaking.
It’s the same hand I wanted to tangle in her hair last night. The same hand I rested on the roof of her car, an inch from her head, swearing to keep her safe.
The duality makes me sick.
And it makes me want it more.
Violence and protection bleed together until I can’t tell where the goalie ends and the monster begins.
My phone buzzes. A text from Adrian.
Adrian:You good?
I kill the screen, plunging the cab back into darkness.
Coach Addison trusts me. He asked me to protect her. And my first attempt at it gets me benched, makes me a threat. Makes me the problem.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. The pain is a dull thud, not enough.
He said keep a professional distance.
A new rule. A new line drawn.
I start the engine, the rumble a low, angry vibration.
I failed the coach. I failed my job. I put a target on my back.
And the worst part? The clean, sharp, good feeling of my forearm against Rylan’s throat.
I pull out of the lot.
Professional distance.
Fine.
But Rylan doesn’t get to look at her. He doesn’t get to think of her.
I’ll take the bench. I’ll sit.
But I’m not backing off. I’m just changing tactics.
