The word hangs there between us.
Survival.
I glance back at the kids again. They’re lining up for another drill now, faces flushed, joy uncomplicated. None of them are thinking about image management or public perception. None of them are one bad headline away from losing everything.
“I’m not letting someone into my life just to make this easier,” I say. “It ends badly.”
Brent’s expression softens just a fraction. “The league doesn’t want chaos,” he says quietly. “And right now, they think you’re standing too close to it.”
The pressure builds, slow and relentless, like water rising around my ankles.
I shake my head. “There has to be another option.”
He looks me straight in the eye, expression stripped of spin or reassurance, and says, “The team wants to bench you.”
Benched. For not agreeing to an arranged marriage.
“Maybe suspend you,” he adds. “And if enough sponsors get nervous, they could cut you entirely.”
I stare at him, the field blurring at the edges.
It doesn’t matter that the claims are false. It doesn’t matter that I’ve done everything by the book. In this world, truth is optional. Perception is currency.
And right now, I’m bankrupt.
“You’re telling me I lose my career because I won’t pretend to be in love,” I say.
“I’m telling you that you lose your career if people decide you’re unstable,” Brent replies. “Fair has nothing to do with it.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, loud enough to drown out the laughter from the field. I want to argue. To demand proof. To remind him I’ve given this team everything.
But football is a business that protects itself first and apologizes later.
Brent lowers his voice. “Please consider the ERS match.”
I turn away from him and look at the kids again. One of them trips during a drill and pops right back up, grinning like nothing happened. No fear. No second-guessing. No awareness of how fast things can fall apart.
I envy that simplicity.
Because I know what happens when you fall in my world. You don’t just get scraped knees. You get dissected.
I think about Lila Hart.
About the way she looked across that table. Guarded. Unwilling. Like she was already bracing for disappointment.
About how quickly she walked out.
Smart.
I swallow hard.
I don’t want to lose football—the one place where effort still means something. Where I know who I am.
Brent waits, giving me space I don’t deserve.
Finally, I nod once, slow and reluctant.
“Fine,” I say, my voice tight. “I’ll think about it.”
