Wild
Practice is hell.
Not because of the drills. Not because of the heat.
Because of the silence.
No one says anything outright, but it’s there. In the way conversations stop when I walk up. In the way a couple of the guys glance between me and Kamden like they’re waiting for round two.
Kamden won’t look at me.
Not once.
He calls pitches like a machine. No eye contact. No back slap. No “nice one, brother.”
Just distance.
And it’s killing me more than the punch did.
We run situational plays for an hour. I throw hard. Harder than I need to. Let the ball rip out of my hand like I can throw the tension away with it.
“You good?” Evan mutters as we rotate off the field.
“Fine,” I say automatically.
Lie.
After practice, I’m in the locker room pulling a clean shirt over my head when Coach Carson’s voice cuts through the noise.
“Wilder. With me. Now.”
The room goes quiet again.
I don’t hesitate.
I grab my bag and follow him down the hall.
He doesn’t say a word the whole walk. That’s worse than yelling.
We reach Susan’s office.
He opens the door.
And my stomach drops.
Kamden is already sitting there.
Susan’s at her desk.
Coach closes the door behind me with a heavy click.
I look at Kamden first. His jaw is tight. His eyes red like he hasn’t slept.
“What’s this?” I ask evenly.
Coach gestures toward the empty chair. “Sit.”
I don’t.
