Julian Heart paces along the sideline, sports jacket open, that steel stare I know way too well locked on us.
I run toward the touchline, ball at my feet.
The smell of wet grass mixes with the cold air.
One touch, two, three.
The body responds before the mind.
And for a moment—just a moment—everything feels simple again.
The rhythm. The breath. The sound of my steps cutting across the field.
“Faster!” Heart yells.
I obey.
Change direction, push forward, pass.
I know I can’t afford distractions…
and yet I have one. Constant. Relentless. Lodged somewhere behind my eyes.
I dreamed about her again last night.
Didn’t sleep afterward, obviously.
My eyes burn, but I need to focus on this damn ball and stop thinking about her.
Tayler jogs past and sends me the ball.
“You good, Becker?”
“Perfect.”
I send it back a little too hard.
Heart whistles, sharp and annoyed.
“Control, Becker! Is your brain in your feet or what?”
“Testing the wind, coach!”
Laughter ripples through the guys.
Of course he doesn’t appreciate it. I canfeelhis growl from across the field.
I force my mind back into the drills and push harder.
The problem is… even when I slip fully into being Cohen Becker again—the player, the captain-without-the-armband—
part of me stays behind.
With her.
What is Sloane doing right now?
22
