He scrambles to his feet again, breathing hard, teeth bared. I stand too, ready to punch him if he tries anything else, my lungs burning from just getting the oxygen back.
Our teammates are already on us, trying to haul us apart. The ref’s shouting. The crowd’s screaming. Benches clear. Coaches yell. It’s chaos now. And it’s all our fault.
Sawyer’s still glaring at me, chest heaving, eyes wild—like I just said the worst thing imaginable. Likemecallinghima closet case hit some nerve I wasn’t supposed to touch.
Which—okay, really? That bothered himthatmuch?
Yeah, I get it—he’s got that soft, pretty face. Big eyes, full lips, long blond hair tied in a bun. The kind of features people love to call feminine. Maybe that’s why the rest of him is all wiry muscle—like his body’s trying to overcompensate.
The fans eat it up though. He’s their golden prince—flawless, untouchable. His team worships the ground he walks on. Modeling agencies line up to put him in multimillion-dollar underwear campaigns. Even his rivals know better than to start shit.
So why the hell is he looking at me like I just crossed a line you don’t come back from?
I mean, I played the game. He overreacted. He’s the one who threw the slur and shoved me first. So what the hell is he so pissed about now?
The next part’s what I hate most—because the ref’s holding up a red card. For me.
The stadium erupts. It’s the quarterfinals. I’m the captain. This’ll mess with the whole team—and even if we win today, a red card means I’m out for the next match.
Disappointment hits hard in my chest as my teammates swarm the ref, shouting that it’s unfair. But he doesn’t even look at them. Doesn’t look at me. And I don’t bother arguing—because I know it won’t change a thing.
The Dragons are still circled around Moon, acting concerned, like they care. They’re not gloating about my red card—probably only because they’re afraid their golden boy might get one too—and he does.
As soon as the ref finishes writing my name, he turns and flashes the red at Moon.
I won’t lie—there’s a second where it feels good. Just a flicker of satisfaction. It doesn’t last, obviously. I’m still out. But at least Moon’s off the field too.
The stadium erupts again. The Dragons go wild, crowding the ref, shouting things I can’t even make out.
Derek Hill—my alternate—and Sam Styles, the Dragons’ captain—both try to push the teams back, to talk to the ref, but it’s chaos. Everyone’s lost it.
“You okay, Mark?”
That’s Eric Tolmachyov—our left winger and my best friend—frowning at me. I can see how upset he is. But he’s not going to blame me. He knows Moon’s the one who always starts shit. Especially with me.
“I’m fine,” I nod.
“I heard what he called you,” says Joe, our right back, from the other side. “He started it. He’s the only one who should’ve gotten a card.”
"Thanks, guys," I mutter, guilt already creeping up my spine.
I should’ve let Moon shout whatever the fuck he wanted and walked away. It doesn’t matter what he said. Doesn’t matter that he shoved me first. I’m the captain. I’m supposed to keep my head, play smart, set the example. Instead, I lost it—and now it might cost my team a spot in the semi-finals.
And yeah, I’m taller. Broader. From the sidelines, it probably looked like I snapped at a harmless shove—like I kicked a puppy for blinking at me wrong. I was provoked, sure, but I doubt anyone heard what he said. And it doesn’t change the fact that I fucked up.
The game has to go on, so they pull us both off the field. I don’t look at Moon as we walk off, keeping distance between us, but I can feel every camera tracking us, every eye in the stadium locked on. The crowd’s still roaring—somewhere between outrage and bloodlust. I hear the whir of lenses, flashes popping at the edge of my vision. I keep my head down, jaw clenched.
Coach Skinner meets me at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t have to say anything—the look on his face says it all. He’s already working out how to get through the next match without me.
“What the hell happened out there, Woods?” he asks, his voice barely holding back his anger. No—not anger. Disappointment. And somehow, that’s even worse.
I don’t answer—just shrug, eyes on the grass, throat tight, tears stinging. I walk past him. He calls my name, but Idon’t look back—I can’t do this right now. There’s no excuse I could give that wouldn’t sound like some seven-year-old trying to explain why they got into a fight.
Coach is a good guy, but I don’t have it in me to admit I screwed up, let alone ask for forgiveness. Not now.
So I head straight for the locker rooms. I need to hit something—hard—and I don’t want anyone watching.
When the locker room door finally slams shut behind me, the sound echoing through the tunnels, I let out a breath and sink to the floor. Silence folds around me—but the shame stays. Heavy, like a stone in my gut.
