Practice is over. Xavier’s probably asleep again. The rest of the day is mine. And somehow, it feels heavier than anything else I’ve carried.
The ache behind my ribs twists. I shouldn’t want this. Idon’twant this. But I’m still sitting here, engine idling, wondering if I should turn left to go home…or right.
Toward the dorms.
Toward him.
I grab my phone off the passenger seat and scroll through my contacts until I find his name. Stare at it for a few minutes debating with myself. This is crossing a line. My thumbs move anyway.
You mess me up, hermoso.
I don’t hit send. I just stare at the words, glowing on the screen like a wound I opened myself. Then I delete them. Every. Last. Letter.
But the damage is already done, because I’ve finally admitted it to myself.
ELEVEN
LUKE
Coach Harris blows his whistle,and I cut left, catching the pass clean and planting hard as I pivot—only for something to slip just a little under my cleats. The grass? My foot? Doesn’t matter. It’s not enough to send me flying, but I do stumble.
“Shit,” I mutter, catching myself with a hand on the turf. My knee twinges. Not pain, exactly. Just a flash of something.
“You good?” Will calls from downfield.
“Fine,” I say, already standing. Shaking it off. It wasn’t a fall. It wasn’t even bad footing. Just a moment. Nothing.
But I know the second I glance toward the sideline that someone else noticed too.
Silas.
He’s got that narrowed look in his eyes. Like he’s already rewriting the whole play in his head. Like he’s already made a decision. Sure enough, when the group breaks and we head toward the benches for water, his voice cuts through the buzz.
“Maddox. You’re out for the scrimmage.”
I freeze. “What?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You tweaked your knee.”
“I didn’t—” I start, then bite it back. My pulse spikes. “I’m fine.”
“We’re not risking it.”
“It wasn’t anything?—”
“You’re benched,” he says, tone final.
The worst part is that he doesn’t evenlookat me when he says it. Like I’m just another player. Another number on his clipboard. Not the guy he railed against a locker hard enough to leave bruises over a week later and questions I still haven’t answered.
Heat spikes low in my gut—but it’s not lust. It’s anger. Frustration. Embarrassment.
I slam the water bottle down on the bench and stand there like an idiot while the rest of the team jogs back out. Ty gives me a look like,What the hell?and I shrug it off, jaw tight.
I stare at the back of Silas’s head, no, I correct myself, Coach Gray’s head, and if looks could kill, I’m sure he’d be dead on the sidelines. Fucker. I’m fine. I can play. My knee doesn’t even hurt.
He doesn’t even look back at me, and it makes my blood boil. I turn to Coach Harris. “I’m good to play, Coach.”
He looks at me and lifts a single eyebrow. “Coach Gray has the reins today, boy.”
