He finally lifts his gaze a fraction.
“I just don’t feel like holding the boxing bag for her again.”
I freeze mid-bite.
I stare at him.
“Hold on. You two box together?”
“Mmh.”
I burst out laughing, nearly choking on the banana.
He doesn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth twitches.
“I’m not kidding, Becker. Don’t hurt her.”
And he says it in that flat, calm tone of his—the one that somehow chills you more than yelling ever could.
No anger. No judgment. Just truth.
I drag a hand down my face, trying not to react.
“It wasn’t… it’s not what you think.”
Dominic rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.
A car horn outside cuts the conversation clean.
That’ll be them.
I sigh, inhale, and head toward the door.
I step outside.
The morning is clear and cold, and the icy air smacks me hard enough to remind me that the real world still exists.
21
Back on the Field
Cohen
The sound of the turf beneath my cleats is one I could recognize out of a thousand.
That first step onto the pitch hits almost physically—right in the chest, in the gut, in the bones.
It smells like old rain and fresh sweat.
I’d been a bundle of nerves.
Tense, irritable, pissed off… yesterday’s press statements still burn.
But all of that faded the second I stepped into the locker room.
The guys greeted me with a roar.
“Becker!” someone shouted, and a moment later I was swallowed in a full-team hug that knocked the air right out of me.
