That was the moment something broke, because it was never “us”; it was just football.And when football was gone, there was nothing left between us.No conversation.No effort to know who I was when I was not wearing pads and bleeding for a fucking scoreboard.
I quit because I got tired of chasing approval that only appeared when I was winning and vanished the moment I wasn’t.
Jace goes quiet.
That alone says everything.
He understands how much football meant to me—how it was the one thing that made me feel alive, like I was good at something that mattered more than just getting by every day.Jace also knows exactly why I had to walk away.Why quitting was the only way to break free from my dad’s grip before it shattered whatever was left of me.
Marcus scratches his jaw, shifting again on his bad leg.“Well, Coach just said to ask.No pressure.”
I nod once, not trusting my mouth.
My eyes then drift, as they tend to do, to that fiery redhead.I don’t intend for it to happen, but it does anyway.
Sam is still across the hall, leaning in close to Bryce.Her head tilted slightly, a gentle, personal look even from this distance.Her eyes hold that warmth again, the kind she never shows me.
Jealousy is a cruel thing.It sinks in deep, scrapes along bones, and refuses to let go.My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with breathing.My fists tighten again, nails digging into flesh as if that might bleed some of it out.
The decision hits hard, driven by anger, jealousy, and a need to control something.I’m pissed at her.At the way my body reacts when she smiles at someone else.At how my heart refuses to listen when I tell it to shut the fuck up.
I straighten up away from the lockers.
“Okay,” I say.“Where’s Coach?”
Marcus blinks, clearly surprised by that.“Uh, field house.”
“Are you serious?”Jace’s eyebrows lift, surprise flashing across his face.
I don’t answer him, as I’m already moving before I can think better of it, boots scraping against the floor, pulse hard enough to feel it in my throat.
The field house smells the same the second I push through the door.Sweat.Old rubber.Grass that has been ground so deep into the concrete it never really leaves.The air is familiar with years of effort, frustration and boys trying to prove something to themselves and everyone watching.
Memories hit me right in the chest, so hard that I slow down without meaning to.
Pads.Helmets.Coaches screaming until their voices are hoarse.My name called out across the field.
I hate how much of myself still remains here.
My boots echo against the floor as I walk down the narrow hall toward the offices.Every step feels heavy.My shoulders straighten automatically, muscle memory kicking in, posture snapping into place just like it always did before practice.
I stop outside the door with COACH REYNOLDS written on it.
I breathe out before knocking.
“Come in,” says a voice from the other side.
Coach Reynolds looks up from his computer as I enter.His eyebrows lift, surprise lighting up his face before it softens into something warmer.
“Reece,” he says with a smile.It’s genuine, not forced.“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Yeah,” I say.“Well, here I am.”
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk.“Please, sit.”
I stay rooted where I am, hands relaxed by my sides, weight evenly on the balls of my feet.Standing feels safer.More honest.
Coach’s eyes flick down, quick and assessing, catching my boots, my stance, the way my shoulders are set.I see the recognition there.The quiet approval.He knows this posture.He should, because he taught it.
