Just jogged back into position, adrenaline sharp in my blood.
One clean tackle. One kept line. One earned breath.
I was a defender.
This was where I made my stand.
The second half of practice kicked off with a high press drill—relentless, punishing, the kind that left your lungs burning and your calves ready to cramp. Coach was out for blood after Minnesota, and none of us were safe from the fallout.
But I wasn’t thinking about the drills.
Not entirely.
Because Daphne was here.
I spotted her the moment we stepped back onto the pitch. She stood just outside the media line with her reporter badge clipped to her jacket, notebook in hand like it hadn’t just been her name dragged into headlines next to mine. Like she hadn’t just risked everything for me.
God, she looked good.
Hair down. Lips parted. Eyes tracking the ball, then darting back to me like she thought I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
I always noticed.
Luís barked my name as the ball zipped toward us, and I snapped back into motion, intercepting a pass and launching it upfield. Clean. Precise. But I didn’t linger on the play—I glanced back to the sidelines.
She was watching.
Pen poised, scribbling something down, but her mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh.
Smug, smartass smile. The one that made me want to kiss it off her face. Slowly.
I turned away, jaw tight, forcing myself to focus.
The next rotation started—scrimmage-style transitions. I stayed sharp. I had to. I could feel the team’s eyes, Coach’s disappointment, the tension of barely-earned trust all riding on me holding the line.
But even with the weight pressing down, I caught her staring again.
This time I didn’t look away.
Just for a second, we held it—eye contact across the field, sweat running down my temple, sun high in the sky, and Daphne Sommers smirking at me like she knew exactly how far under my skin she lived.
And maybe she did.
She tilted her head slightly. Wrote something else down.
I didn’t know if she was taking notes for the piece she was working on, or just pretending to.
I didn’t care.
All I could think about was the way she looked the night she bailed me out, the way her hand felt in mine as we walked out of that hellstorm like we’d won.
I turned back toward the drill just as the next ball launched, springing into motion, calling out to Jensen to close in.
But her presence lingered—steady, grounding.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
