I drop onto the bench and peel my gloves off slowly, letting the noise roll over me. Across the room, Sebastian is already working.
No celebration. No downtime.
He’s crouched beside Kyler Adams, tape spread across the bench like surgical tools, fingers moving quick and precise as he checks the ankle Kyler twisted in the second quarter.
“Tell me where it hurts,” Sebastian says, calm and focused.
“Every-fucking-where,” Kyler groans. “I think I’m dying.”
“Nah. Dying people don’t whine this much.”
Kyler flashes a pained smile. “Admit it, Haynes. Life’s boring without me in your treatment room.”
Sebastian doesn’t even look up. “Truth. But I’ve named theplants after you in your absence. They’re better conversationalists and they don’t smell like hot meat.”
I huff a laugh.
That’s my brother. Same dry delivery whether we’re at home or in a stadium full of fifty thousand people. The guys respect him. Not because he’s my brother, but because he’s good at what he does. He’s more than earned his title as the Head Athletic Trainer for the Portland Rush. And honestly, I’m kind of glad to have him around. He’s the one person I know I can trust.
Jake barrels past me, still buzzing from the win, helmet swinging from his hand. “Haynes!” he shouts. “You see that safety bite on the fake? Dude was LOST.”
“Yeah, I saw,” I tell him.
“You smiled,” Orry calls from across the room. “And you never smile during games.”
“That’s just my face, Whitfield,” I say automatically.
Bennett snorts. “Your face usually looks like you’re calculating tax returns.”
“Yeah well, football is math. What can I say?”
Boone tosses a towel at my head and I catch it without looking.
“Math doesn’t make people juke out of their cleats,” he says.
“Well then it’s a damn good thing I’m multi-talented.”
Laughter ripples through the room. I stand and move toward the water cooler, grabbing two bottles on instinct. One goes to Boone, who forgot to hydrate again. The other I toss toward Jake.
Caretaking is easier when it looks like habit.
Across the room, voices spike as Bennett and Orry forget they’re too amped up from the win to realize they’re being dicks to each other.
I step between them before it escalates. “Hey. Save it for film,” I say lightly.
Bennett exhales and Orry rolls his shoulders and just like that the tension dissolves.
I’d say I’m full of magic but I’m smart enough to know it’s all in the timing.
“Thanks, Dad,” Boone mutters behind me.
I clap him on his shoulder. “You’re welcome, son.”
More laughter surrounds the group before Coach storms through with post-game reminders—recovery, media, schedule—and the room shifts, our collective energy settling into something more grounded.
Sebastian stands, giving Kyler’s ankle one last test.
“You’re not running tomorrow,” he says.
