“O’Riley!”
Jake’s voice cut through the moment like a snapped cable. Connor’s jaw twitched once before he turned his head.
Jake stood a few steps away at the bar, clearly oblivious to the fact he’d just bulldozed through something fragile and uncomfortable and entirely too intimate.
“Your round,” Jake called. “Stop flirting and get over here.”
My body deflated, which concerned me far too much. Connor exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t move immediately as his attention flicked back to me, lingering for a beat longer than it should have.
“I guess that’s my cue.”
My stomach absolutely betrayed me at that.
He stepped back, shoulders squaring before he turned toward Jake. As he walked away, Jake clapped him on the back, saying something that was lost over the music.
Connor didn’t give me another glance.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to or if I’d completely fall apart if he did.
14
Connor
I sucked today.
By the time we moved from sled pushes to handling work, the sun had lifted high enough to warm the turf, leaving a faint shimmer across the pitch. Not that California was often cold, but the heat was rising all the same.
Coach had split us into pods of four for the passing sequences: Bobby anchoring the base, Jake and I staggered at the arms of the Y, with one of the younger backs running the pointed line through the cones. It was the kind of drill we’d done a thousand times, basic repetition designed to sharpen hands, timing, and communication.
Normally, it settled me. Today, it felt like being asked to stand still inside my own head.
Bobby fed the first ball with his usual precision, the pass heavy enough that I had to absorb the weight before redirecting it quickly to Jake. He took it clean and returned it to me with enough spin to test my grip. I sent it forward to Ramirez, whoaccelerated through the marker, popped it back, then looped wide to start again.
We fell into rhythm almost immediately: catch, transfer, support, recycle. Feet light. Shoulders squared.
Jake glanced over as he caught one of my passes, eyebrows lifting slightly as he felt the extra force behind it. “Easy,” he muttered, not a complaint but a check-in.
I didn’t respond, instead sending the next ball toward Ramirez with a smoother, more controlled weight. He ran onto it perfectly, feeding Bobby again before looping back to his marker.
The sequence repeated—over ten meters, then twenty, then back again—and by the third cycle, the tempo had lifted, the ball traveling faster than before. Sweat gathered at my temples, sliding down my jawline, the heat of exertion grounding me in the kind of clarity only physical work ever offered.
But every time the ball left my hands, my mind edged back to that conversation with my agent yesterday.
“They’re formally asking about your availability for the summer tour. They want to bring you into the wider training squad, and they’re prepared to move quickly if you’re open to it.”
I hadn’t even started my own season, yet and the pressure to change was right there. The expectation that I would want it—that I would drop everything here without hesitation. I knew my family wanted this. I should too. All I wanted to do was shove the thought aside, bury it under the rhythm of the drill, but it stayed stubbornly in the periphery of my mind.
Bobby sent me another ball, slightly low. I adjusted quickly, flicking it up and pushing it toward Jake. He moved into it, caught, and held it a second longer than the drill required—long enough to look directly at me.
“You’re throwing like someone who hasn’t slept,” he said, keeping his tone light enough that Ramirez wouldn’t notice.
“I’m throwing fine,” I snapped.
Jake didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. He sent the ball back with a clean, fluid motion, and I redirected it up field, trying to lose myself in the familiar cadence: catch, guide, step, release.
Coach blew the whistle from the sideline and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Timing on the last loop needs work! And O’Riley—stop throwing hospital passes, or I’m stealing your boots!”
