The sky over Indiana was a solid block of gray. Rain threatened but never fell, just hovered there, thick and heavy, like the tension building in my chest.
We were twenty minutes into the match, and I could already feel it slipping. The energy was off—on the field, on the bench, in the stands. It was like no one had shown up with fire in their gut. No one but me.
Troy botched another pass. Lazy. Weak. Straight to the other team’s midfielder like he wanted to turn over possession.
I clapped my hands once, sharp. “Let’s go!”
No response. No eye contact. Just a shrug and a jog back into position like nothing happened.
This wasn’t how we won games. This wasn’t how we survived seasons.
You don’t coast when my career’s on the line.
Every pass I made, every interception, every sprint—I was trying to ignite something. But I couldn’t carry the whole damn team. Not alone. Not when half of them played like it was a casual scrimmage and not a nationally televised game.
And I hated that.
Second half, it got worse. The weather turned—wind picked up, ball control got sloppy.
And Troy gave up entirely. Didn’t chase down a single break. Let a midfielder slide past him and didn’t even turn.
The second goal hit the back of our net, and I saw red.
The final whistle blew, and the scoreline glared at us from the board: 2–0. Ugly. Deserved.
After shaking hands, we trudged off the field to a storm of boos and reporters already circling like vultures.
I tugged my jersey over my face, trying to block it all out. The noise. The failure. The part of me that wanted to grab Troy by the collar and make him care.
I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t cool the burn crawling under my skin.
We got to the tunnel, and he laughed—laughed—at something on his phone like we hadn’t just embarrassed ourselves on the pitch.
I stopped walking.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, voice low, coiled tight.
He glanced at me. “Relax, man. It’s one game.”
One game?
One game?
I nearly lost it.
But I didn’t. I turned and kept walking, fists clenched, jaw tight enough to ache.
Because I couldn’t afford to throw a punch—not when the cameras were watching. Not when every move I made was dissected.
But in my head, it echoed:
You don’t get to coast while I bleed for this team.
You don’t laugh when we lose.
You don’t fuck around when my future is on the line.
The locker room was cold, silent except for the sound of cleats hitting tile and zippers being yanked open. Everyone was pissed. Tired. Wrecked.
