Not now.
Not when everything I wanted was riding on this season.
And her.
Coach Reid paced the front of the locker room like a storm brewing.
The silence stretched—thick, uneasy.
Then he spoke, low and sharp.
“You think I care about your drama? Your hurt feelings?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “This isn’t high school. No one’s giving you a ribbon for pouting the hardest.”
He looked at Troy first. Then me. Then the rest of the team, his gaze dragging across each face like a scalpel.
“You think you’re the only one with something to prove? That your personal life gives you permission to half-ass a match? To throw punches before you even win the game?”
He stopped pacing. Folded his arms. Eyed us like he’d already buried better players.
“You don’t want to be here, walk. Door’s open. No one’s forcing you to wear this crest. But if you’re going to step on that field with your name on your back, you give me everything. I don’t care what fight you’re in, what girl you’re thinking about, or what grudge you’re still nursing.” His voice dropped. “You want to fight someone? Fight for your damn team.”
Silence.
He turned and walked out, letting the door slam shut behind him.
I grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink.
Didn’t even look at Troy.
He wasn’t worth it.
Not right now.
Because Reid was right. I’d been playing pissed off, not focused. Playing for a reaction instead of the win.
And I didn’t come here to let this season fall apart because I couldn’t get out of my own head.
So I shut it down.
The jealousy. The noise. The heat crawling up my spine every time someone mentioned Daphne’s name like she was a prize.
No more distractions.
Just the ball. The clock. The game.
Time to lock the fuck in.
We took the field again, but it was like no one knew how to move. No rhythm. No trust. Just noise and bodies crashing into each other, trying to force plays that weren’t there.
By the 60th minute, it was clear: we were off. Way off.
Troy missed an open net by overcorrecting on his plant foot. Beckett was barking at the ref like it was personal. Griffin lagged five paces behind every counter, like he was dragging weights around his ankles.
I kept fighting—running harder, tracking back deeper, pressing higher—but no one was reading me. No one was where they needed to be. Every one-two pass I tried fizzled out before it even started.
Seventieth minute. Two-nil.
And we were losing more than just the match.
