We’re close.
Westbridge pushes back—aggressive, borderline dirty.
A defender slams into me with high elbows.
Doc jogs over, touches my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod.
Time stretches and collapses at once.
Sweat burns my eyes, my pulse pounds in my ears.
About halfway through, after a rough tackle, something stops me cold.
A glimpse.
A movement in the stands, between the sea of red and white.
For a second I think I’m hallucinating.
A figure in the crowd, hair pulled back, red scarf over her shoulders.
A face I know too damn well.
Sloane.
I freeze.
Just for a second—
but enough to feel the field slip away from under my feet.
A chill bolts down my spine.
Did I imagine her?
“Becker!” Heart roars.
I snap back and sprint into the box.
Turbo sends the ball my way, but I’m late.
Their defense steals it.
I rake a hand through my hair.
Breathe.
Focus.
Saint shoots me a look. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Just remembering I can’t afford distractions.”
