I drop my bag on the bench and sit down, shoulders tense, fingers already working on the laces and straps.I strip off and put on my gear piece by piece.Pads.Jersey.Cleats.The routine comes back quickly.Automatic.My body knows this even if my mind is still a mess.
The field hits me the moment I step outside.
Cut grass.Something welcoming underneath it all.The sound alone lights me up.Pads slamming together.Cleats tearing up turf.Coach’s shouts floating through the air.It’s loud, violent and honest in a way the rest of my life never is.
Coach Reynolds doesn’t go easy on me.
“Wilson,” he barks, clipboard tucked under his arm.“Defense drills.You’re running last.”
A few guys glance back at me.Testing.Curious.
I nod once.
Ten minutes in, and my lungs are on fire.Each breath grates on the way in and burns on the way out.My legs feel heavy, muscles screaming, but my body remembers what it used to do, even if it’s pissed at me for stepping away.Muscle memory kicks in.
I was good once.Strong.Fast.Angry in a way that worked for me instead of against me.
Now every sprint is earned.Every drill costs something.Sweat stings my eyes, runs down my back and soaks into my pads until they feel twice as heavy.When I take a hit, it rattles my bones hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
But through everything, I welcome it.
Every shove reminds me I’m still here.Still standing.Still able to handle the punishment and send it right back.
I line up across from an asshole I put in his place about a month ago for running his mouth about Jace and I.He freezes when he realizes it’s me.Half terrified.Half thrilled.Like he gets to tell this story later, no matter the outcome.
Bad fucking luck for him.
The whistle blows, and I don’t hesitate.
I drive straight into him, shoulder low, legs pumping, giving it my all with the hit.Bodies crash loudly enough to turn heads.He stumbles back, eyes wide open, barely able to stay on his feet.
Good.
That message lands clean.
Coach watches from the sideline.He nods once.No praise.No commentary.That’s all I get.And somehow it’s enough.
Defense drills grind on.
Relentless.Repetitive.Brutal.
Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt until it sticks to my skin like a second layer I can’t peel off.My lungs burn every time I breathe in.My legs move slower than they used to.Heavier.I miss tackles I shouldn’t and get shoved harder than I expect.I get up more slowly than I want to.
It pisses me off.
So I push harder.
I take the hits.I give them back.My bones shake.My muscles scream.Every drill is a fight I have to win all over again.
But I don’t quit because quitting would leave too much room in my head, and that space is dangerous.
That space fills quickly with the way Sam Carter looked at me in the library.The way her breath hitched and how she bolted as if she was afraid of what might happen if she stayed.
So I run again and again, hit harder, and dig deeper.I let the violence burn everything out of me for a few seconds at a time.Because if I stop moving, if I stop hurting, every thought I don’t want of her comes rushing back.And right now, my head belongs to this team, not Sam.
By the time practice ends, my arms are trembling and my lungs are screaming as if they have something personal against me.Sweat drips off my chin.Everything hurts.Everything feels earned.
Coach claps his hand on my shoulder.
