I grit my teeth and pace in front of the bench. The scrimmage kicks off, and I try to keep my focus on the field, but all I see is Silas—Coach Gray—shouting calls like I don’t exist. As though I didn’t spend the last few weeks proving I belong out there.
My hands curl into fists.
Every sprint I ran. Every pass I caught. Every bruise still blooming across my ribs from getting slammed by two defenders during drills—and I walked it off.I’ve done everything right. Everything he’s asked.
But apparently one fucking stumble is enough to get sidelined.
I’m so worked up by the end of practice I barely hear Coach Harris calling it. The moment the whistle blows, I’m off the bench and stalking toward him. Him, not Harris.
Silas turns just as I approach, as if he knew I was coming.
And that expression? Blank. Unbothered. Infuriating.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, voice low but venomous. “You bench me in front of everyone like I’m made of glass?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares me down with that same cool detachment that makes me want toscream.
“No player is playing injured under my command.”
“I’mnotinjured,” I snap. “I didn’t even fall. It was a stumble, not a blowout. My knee doesn’t hurt. You’re being overly cautious.”
“I’m being responsible.”
I step closer, chest heaving. “No, you’re being a control freak.”
His jaw ticks. Barely. But it’s the first crack in the ice.
“You want to prove you’re strong? Then act like it,” he says. “Get cleared by the trainer. Until then, you're benched.”
“Seriously?” I bark. “You’re making me go to the trainer for aghost twinge?”
He levels me with a stare. “That’s the protocol. And the standard. I don’t play favorites.”
No. Of course not. That would require acknowledging anything happened at all. That he ever touched me. Ever saw me as anything but a player in his drill book.
I stare at him for a long moment, breathing hard. Waiting. Hoping for something in his expression to shift. But he’s already walking away.
And I’m left burning on the field, surrounded by teammates who don’t know a damn thing, clutching a rage that isn’t just about being benched.
It’s about being disposable.
Again.
I shove the training room door open so hard it ricochets off the wall. Max doesn’t flinch.
Of course he doesn’t.
He’s exactly where I expect him—arms crossed, leaning against the edge of the training table like he’s been waiting to call someone an idiot all morning. Probably has. He looks up from whatever injury chart he’s scribbling on, one brow already cocked. He’s been surly since they transferred him to the football team.
"Let me guess," he says, voice flat. "You’re dying and need emergency amputation?"
“I need to be cleared to play.”
That gets both brows. “Cleared forwhat?”
I throw my arms out. “Coach Gray benched me. Said I needed the athletic trainer’s sign-off.”
Max blinks once. “What happened?”
