"Now, Quentin."
I let her guide me toward the medical tent, her hand on my good arm, her body close enough to mine that there is no ambiguity about what this looks like. She's not behaving like the team bookkeeper checking on an injured player. She's not behaving like the coach's daughter maintaining professional distance. She's holding my arm and walking me off the field and her scent has gone so warm and protective that every person we pass can smell it.
I let her. That's the part that matters. I could have shrugged her off and told her to go back to the stands or even maintained the distance we've been keeping in public. Instead, I let Iris Delacroix walk me off the field in front of the scouts and the crowd and the entire Knotlocke sideline because my shoulder hurts and her hands are gentle and I'm tired of pretending she's not mine.
Chad's voice cuts across the bench before we reach the tent.
"You seeing this?" He walks off the field after the penalty with his helmet in his hand, his eyes locked on the two of us. Kevin is already on his feet at the end of the bench, his tweaked hamstring apparently forgotten, his mouth hanging open. Chad raises his voice, making sure it carries to the cluster of coaches and players gathered near the sideline. "They're dating. Both of them, right under Coach's nose, with his daughter." He gestures toward me and Iris, then toward Milo standing frozen near the kicking net. "The whole time. Total disrespect."
The sideline goes quiet. The game is still happening behind us with the opposing team running their offensive series and the crowd noise filling the stadium, but on the Knotlocke bench everything has stopped. Every player, every trainer, every assistant coach turns to look at Coach Delacroix.
He's standing at the fifty-yard line with his headset around his neck and his playbook tucked beneath his arm. His gaze moves to Iris, standing beside me with her hand still on my arm, no longer hiding anything from anyone. Then to me. Then to Chad.
The silence stretches long enough that the stadium noise fills the gap, the announcer calling a play that none of us are watching.
His voice comes out in the quiet, measured tone of a man who has been coaching young men for twenty years and has learned that volume is the least effective tool in his arsenal. "I never said any of you couldn't date my daughter. She can handle her own,and if something was bothering her, she would come to me." His eyes move to Chad, the Alpha slowly curling in on himself. "However, I expect every single one of you to treat her with respect. Before this year, none of you proved to me you could treat her that way."
Chad's mouth opens and closes without producing anything useful. Kevin sinks back onto the bench like he's trying to disappear into it. The rest of the team develops a sudden fascination with their cleats and their chinstraps and the Gatorade table.
Coach pulls his headset back over his ears. "We're up by ten. Focus, or I'll bench every last one of you." He turns back to the field, focusing his attention elsewhere.
Iris doesn't let go of my arm. She walks me the rest of the way to the medical tent without looking back at the bench. The trainer checks my shoulder while she stands beside the table with her arms crossed, watching every test and rotation with the same focus she brings to her spreadsheets.
"Grade one AC sprain," the trainer says, pressing along the joint. "Ice and rest. No structural damage."
"He's done for today," Iris says before I can argue.
The trainer looks at me. I look at Iris. Her expression leaves exactly zero room for negotiation.
"I'm done for today," I confirm.
The second half starts with me on the bench, ice strapped to my shoulder, Iris sitting beside me with her knee pressed against mine. The coaching staff doesn't comment on her presence and nobody on the team makes eye contact with either of us for longer than a second. The bench has never been this quiet during a game but they also don’t know what to say. None of us do without setting Coach off.
By the third quarter, it’s our ball on the twenty-nine with the score 21-10. The offense stalls on three plays and the field goalunit trots out, Milo jogging to his spot behind the holder.Forty-six yards.He's never hit one from this distance in a game before. Practice, yes, dozens of times, but practice doesn't have twenty thousand people watching and three scouts with their pens hovering over their clipboards.
The snap is clean. The hold goes down smooth and laces out. Milo's plant foot hits the turf, and his leg swings through with a follow-through so committed his whole body lifts off the ground as the ball climbs in a tight spiral that clears the crossbar with at least five feet to spare.
The crowd erupts in chaos. Our teammates swarm him on the field and from the bench, I watch my brother disappear into the celebration with his fist in the air and his grin visible even through his face mask. Iris' hand finds mine between us on the bench, hidden beneath the towel draped over my knee.
24-10
On any other night all of this would feel like something worth holding onto.
But the moment we hit the locker room, the side eyes and whispers are a lot heavier than anything out on the field. Chad left before anyone else with his locker cleaned out in under three minutes, Kevin trailing after him without a word.
Coach finds us as the last few players are heading out. He stands in the doorway of the locker room with his arms crossed, the post-game flush gone from his face. "My office. Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp." His eyes move between Milo and me. "Both of you."
"Yes, sir," Milo says.
"And tell Iris." Something moves through his voice when he says her name, cracking the professional veneer just enough for me to hear what's sitting underneath it. It's not anger. "I'd like her there too."
"Yes, sir."
He nods once and leaves. The hallway swallows his footsteps and then it's just us, and the faint sound of the cleaning crew starting their rounds.
I drop to the bench, grimacing as I grab my discarded ice and press it back to my shoulder. Milo drops onto the bench beside me, still damp from the shower, his bag packed at his feet. His eyes go straight to the ice pack.
"How bad is it? Scale of one to ten. And don't say fine because I watched you wince putting your shirt on and that's at least a six."
