Again. Another rep. Another break.
The turf grips my cleats. My quad burns. My lungs warm. My knee stays quiet enough to let me exist.
On rep four, Carter throws it slightly off target, testing me like he always does. I adjust, catch it clean, and shoot him a glare.
He grins, unrepentant.
Lyla’s voice carries from the sideline. “Hands are still good.”
Coach Harding answers without looking away. “Always were.”
That makes my chest do something stupid.
I run another route. Then another. Footwork between reps, quick steps through the ladder, hips square.
Mara watches my knee like she’s waiting for it to betray me.
I’m waiting too.
But it doesn’t.
After fifteen minutes, Coach Harding lifts a hand. “That’s enough.”
Mara nods immediately. “Cool down. Ice after.”
I slow to a walk, sweat on my spine, breath coming hard but controlled.
I’m not limping. I’m not pretending.
Carter tosses the ball over toward the sideline and heads my way. He stops in front of me, eyes sharp. “You’re moving better than I expected.”
“Thanks?” I say.
He huffs a laugh. “Not an insult. It’s…good.”
Coach Harding steps up beside us, hands on his hips, Lyla right beside him. “He’s doing the work.”
Lyla’s gaze flicks to my knee. “Does it hurt?”
I hesitate. Honesty tastes like pride.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s…manageable.”
She nods like she gets it. Like she’s seen enough rehab rooms and injuries to know pain isn’t always a stop sign.
Coach Harding claps my shoulder once. “Go change. Then come inside.”
My stomach drops. “For what?”
Carter’s mouth curves. “For a conversation.”
Beck, who has been pretending not to eavesdrop from ten feet away, makes a delightedoooohsound.
I shoot him a look that could kill.
He grins wider, completely unhelpful.
—
