I finish stripping out of my gear and head toward the showers. I’m slower than normal. It’s not that I can’t move, but I don’t want to prove them right.
In the shower, the water hits my back, and I tilt my head forward, letting it run. When I reach up to rinse my hair, my shoulder resists enough to make me grit my teeth.
It’s fine.
It has to be fine.
Back at my stall, I grab my phone and see two messages from Brinley waiting for me.
I picture her in the stands, watching every save, catching the moment my shoulder started to bother me in the way most people wouldn’t notice.
I start typingI’m finewhen her next message comes through, telling me she’s heading home with Atlee.
Before I can respond, Coach Glasgow reappears. “Coach Dawson wants to see you.”
“Right now?” I ask, still sitting in my towel. I haven’t worked up the energy to get dressed yet.
He nods once. I glance down at my phone, hovering over the screen before I type out a quick message.
Me: Just hit the showers. I’ll call you when I’m heading out.
I send it and shove my phone back into my locker, then stand. My shoulder protests when I pull on my T-shirt and hoodie, and I quickly pull on my jeans and boots.
The hallway outside the locker room feels too calm after a game. Coach Dawson’s office door is cracked open when I get there. Light spills out into the hall.
I knock once and step inside, telling myself this is about our next game. About our upcoming matchups. Anything that would make sense after a win.
Instead, my mind imagines Brinley here, confronting him about the news that he's her father, and her storming out in tears. Why? I still don’t even know.
As the door shuts behind me, it isn’t only my shoulder that feels heavy. It’s not knowing what he wants to talk to me about.
Something tells me this won’t be as simple as I hope.
“Have a seat,” he says.
He doesn’t ask how my shoulder is doing or how I’m feeling. Instead, he leans back in his chair, folds his hands in front of him, and looks at me like he’s already decided how this conversation is going to go.
“What is going on with you and Brinley Taylor?”
My jaw tightens at the mention of her name. At the way he intentionally uses Taylor, when it should’ve been Dawson.
“That’s what this is about?” I ask.
He arches a brow. “Your head hasn’t been in the game, Rowdy.”
There it is. The nickname. The one everyone uses. It doesn’t usually bother me, but in the context of this conversation, it does.
“My stats would say otherwise,” I say evenly.
He waves a hand. “I’m not talking numbers. I’m talking about your focus. Your discipline. You’ve been distracted.”
I lean back in the chair, careful with my shoulder when I cross my arms. “With all due respect, sir, you pulled me in here after a game where I took a hit in the crease to question who I spend time with?”
His nostrils flare. “That personal life,” he says evenly, “is starting to bleed into this team.”
I shake my head. “I don’t see how.”
I want to laugh and point out that if anyone’s personal life is interfering with our team, it would be his.
