By the time training rolls around, I’m hanging on by a thread.I need to run, hit something, experience the burn in my legs and pretend I’m not coming apart at the seams.But before I can step onto the field, Coach calls me into his office.
“The scout’ll be at the game,” he says.“Confirmed it this morning.”
I nod, the words barely landing.
Coach keeps going.“Your dad knows you’re back.”
My head snaps up.“Did he call you?”
“No,” Coach shakes his head.“He showed up.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
I sit back in the chair, stunned, with my hands clenched into fists against my thighs.
Two days ago.
And he said nothing.
Not when we crossed paths yesterday, when I walked past him in the hallway and gave him a nod like some dumbass still hoping to be seen.He didn’t assert authority, bark orders, or question me about why I was back on the team.
“Well, just give it your best shot out there tomorrow, Reece, and everything will work out,” Coach says.
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, pushing up from the chair.
But my head’s a fucking mess.
By the time training begins, I’m so tense I can barely breathe.Every muscle in my body is on edge, ready to snap or explode—I can’t tell which.
So I run.
Harder than I ever have before.I push until my legs burn, my lungs scream, and sweat pours down my back, soaking through my shirt.I take every drill like it’s life or death, as if the scout’s already watching, as if the ghosts in my head are chasing me down, and the only way out is to keep moving forward.
It’s not about the scout or my dad, even though his silence still echoes in my ears.
It’s Sam.
If she never looks at me again, never speaks my name without venom, I still want to be the guy who deserved her.The one who should have fought harder.Who should have told her the truth sooner.The one who should have never let her walk away carrying all that pain alone.
Even if I never get the chance to fix it, I need to be someone she would be proud of.
It’s the night of the game.The night the scout comes to watch West play, or anyone else worth betting on.The night I have to matter.
The field smells of freshly cut grass, an earthy scent that lingers on your skin.But tonight, there’s something else in the air—something heavier.The smell of pressure, of too many broken promises to myself, and second chances already spent.
The bleachers are buzzing with so much energy.When the crowd roars, it hits the base of your spine and climbs.Saturday night under the lights.That means every fucking play counts.
I stand on the sidelines, helmet in hand, jaw clenched.The lights are bright and harsh, shining in thick beams, highlighting every movement, every mistake.No shadows to hide in tonight.No room for errors.
The scout’s somewhere, watching and judging.Measuring every sprint, pass, and block against some invisible standard I’ll never be told.He won’t remember my name unless I make him.Give him something he can’t ignore.
Coach pats me on the shoulder.“Play smart.Play hard.You’ve got this.”
I nod, but my focus already narrows.The noise fades away.The crowd turns into background static.It’s just the field now.The game.
Coach pulls his cap lower, the brim nearly covering his eyes.
