The players are returning for the second half.
The sky’s darker now, the air colder.
The floodlights shine along the sideline.
And then I see him.
Cohen.
He’s talking with Delgado, one hand in his hair, eyes lowered.
His red jersey clings to him, the big nine on his back sharp under the lights.
When he lifts his head, our eyes meet for a second.
Brief. Intense.
Like a punch and a breath at the same time.
“Sloane,” my mother says softly, “the game’s starting again.”
“I know.”
I don’t need to look at her to feel her smile.
Yes—she’sdefinitelyenjoying this.
The referee’s whistle slices through the air.
I adjust my scarf, inhale.
Somewhere on that field, Cohen Becker is trying to regain focus.
And I’m trying to remember why I shouldn’t worry about him.
Spoiler: I’m failing.
Second half.
The crowd rumbles, music bounces off the stands, and my stomach decidesnowis the perfect time for butterflies.
I don’t know what happened in that locker room.
Maybe Dad yelled loud enough to wake the dead, or maybe someone threatened to make Becker clean the locker room witha toothbrush.
But when they walk back onto the field… he’s not the same man.
I see it instantly—in the way he moves.
No more lost look.
No weird, restless tension.
Just a man back on a mission.
The crowd feels it too.
A shift.
