But this? The cold shoulder from my own team? That cut deeper than I expected.
Maybe I deserved it.
Maybe they didn’t know the whole story.
Maybe they didn’t care.
All I knew was I hadn’t come this far to let it all fall apart because of one arrogant bastard and a few headlines.
I was here to play. To win. To protect what mattered.
Even if that meant standing alone in a room full of teammates.
Even if I had to earn my place back one goal, one assist, one breathless sprint at a time.
I’d done it before.
But this time, it wasn’t just for the badge on my chest.
It was for her.
"Now, get your asses out on the pitch," Reid barked from the doorway.
The sun was brutal that afternoon—high, hot, and merciless, like it had a grudge. We’d barely stepped onto the pitch, and sweat already clung to my neck under my training top. Coach barked for us to get moving, like we hadn’t just flown in six hours ago from a loss no one wanted to talk about.
I jogged out with the rest of the squad, cleats digging into the turf, muscles sore but coiled. This was home for me—the field. All the noise faded out here. All the pressure, the headlines, the side-eyes in the locker room. They couldn’t follow me between the white lines.
But the tension? Yeah, that stuck like glue.
Coach didn’t give us time to ease into anything. No light warm-ups or easy drills. We went straight into 3-on-2 defensive break scenarios. Of course he paired me with Luís and Jensen—two midfielders who’d barely passed to me all match yesterday. Subtle.
Ball got played in from the wing. One striker up top with speed, and two on the outside for support. We had to hold the line as defenders. No room for mistakes.
The first wave came fast. Jensen hesitated, and the striker nearly split us. I stepped in, body first, cut the ball off clean. No celebration, no applause. Just reset. Again.
We rotated. Over and over. Fast feet. Controlled aggression. Tactical movement. Defense wasn’t about glory—it was about consistency. About watching the hips, not the eyes. Timing the tackle. Reading what they’d do before they even knew they'd do it.
I lived for this.
Next round, the forward tried to fake inside and take me wide. I didn’t bite. Matched him step for step until I nudged him off the ball just enough to force a turnover. Coach blew the whistle. “Finally,” he muttered.
There were no smiles from the rest of the team. Just more drills. More silence.
We moved into full-field scrimmage. I took my place at center back, giving directions, barking orders, shifting the line with every attacking push. I could feel them watching me—my own teammates—like they were waiting for me to snap, or slip, or prove I didn’t belong.
But I didn’t give them anything.
When their forward came barreling in on a through ball, I read it early and intercepted before he could get his second touch. Quick pass to Cam. Reset. Reset. Reset.
The sun burned hotter. The session dragged. But I didn’t quit.
Not when someone muttered under their breath after I missed a clearance.
Not when a midfielder accidentally clipped me going for the ball.
Not even when Coach pulled me aside and said, low enough so only I could hear it, “Clean up the chaos off the pitch, Walker. Or you won’t be on it much longer.”
I didn’t answer.
