The silence is almost deafening. No one speaks, though a couple of guys shift uneasily on their feet. I wait a beat, giving them all a chance to say what’s on their minds. Nothing. Cowards.
“Good,” I say, satisfied. “Because here’s the thing: Dylan’s earned her spot on this team. If you can’t handle that—you think you’re too good to be on the field with her—don’t waste our time. Leave now.”
More silence. A few guys exchange glances, weighing their options, but no one moves. Exactly what I expected.
“And one more thing,” I add, folding my arms across my chest. “If I catch anyone making her—or anyone else on this team—a target? You’re benched. And if that doesn’t do the trick, you’re off the team.”
Woosley steps up next to me, nodding firmly. “We’re not here for drama. We’re here to win. So get your heads on straight—or get the hell out. This is college level fellas, not your ragtag high school teams.”
I pull the whistle from around my neck, give it a sharp blow, and watch every head snap toward me. “Line it up!” I bark.
The guys groan but move, dragging their feet into a crooked line. I blow the whistle again—longer this time. “Straighten up, or you’re all running extra!”
That gets them moving. Cleats scrape against the grass as they shuffle into place, shoulders bumping, but no one dares mutter a word. Good. They’re learning.
I blow the whistle a third time. “We’re doing conditioning today. Three miles, then suicides. No shortcuts. Everyone runs until I say stop. Anyone slacking? The whole team pays for it. Got it?”
A few of them mutter, “Yes, Coach,” but I need more.
“I said, got it?” I snap.
“Yes, Coach!” they shout back in unison, loud enough to echo across the field.
“Good. On the whistle.” I raise it to my lips. “Three... two... one...”
Tweet.
They take off like a herd of buffalo, cleats pounding the field. I fall back, pacing the sidelines with my arms crossed, watching each one closely.
The first mile starts strong—some of the guys showing off, pushing their pace too early. I see it every time. They’ll burn outhalfway through, and the smart ones—the ones who know how to manage themselves—will catch up.
By the second, the pack starts to splinter. Ford’s still hanging toward the front, his jaw tight, legs working hard, but I see the fatigue creeping in. His shoulders roll forward a little more with every step, and his stride shortens, but he keeps going.
Jacob’s about a dozen strides behind, steady and consistent. He isn’t flashy, but he’s got heart. He never lets up—not in practice, not in games, not even when things get ugly. That’s why I respect him. He doesn’t talk much, but he lets his effort do the talking.
This is where it gets brutal.
Sweat drips from every player, their jerseys dark with moisture. Legs start to buckle, and chests rise and fall like bellows, but no one stops. Not unless they want hell to rain down on all of them.
“Faster!” I shout from the sideline, pacing like a drill sergeant. “You think games are won at half speed? Let’s go! Push it!”
Ford digs deep, pumping his arms as he sprints across the field. He’s grimacing now, but he doesn’t slow. Jacob follows close behind, face tight with focus, eyes locked on the finish line. He’s not the fastest, but he’s got grit, and that counts for more.
Yeah, he’s definitely enjoying this.
By the time Woosley blows his whistle for the last sprint, half the team looks ready to collapse. Some of them are bent over, hands on their knees, gasping like fish out of water. Others are flat on their backs, chests heaving as they try to catch their breath.
I give them a moment to recover, then blow my whistle one last time. “Line it up!”
They groan, dragging themselves into another crooked formation. I take my time walking the line, making eye contact with each player, reading their exhaustion.
Ford leans forward, hands on his thighs, drenched in sweat but still upright. Jacob’s breathing hard, but he meets my gaze with a look that says,That all you got?
Woosley steps forward, arms folded. “You’ve all had your fun running your mouths this week,” he says, his voice cutting through the stillness. “But that shit ends now.”
I step beside him, my tone sharp. “You will respect your teammates—and your coaches. Hopefully, today is the only lesson or reminder that you’ll need.”
I let that hang in the air for a moment, scanning their faces to make sure the message sinks in. Most of them nod, still too winded to argue. A few exchange looks but keep their mouths shut. Smart choice.
