Thud.
Every strike carried the same frustration I couldn’t shake.
The ball ricocheted off the post and rolled to a stop near midfield. I jogged after it, chest still heaving, sweat burning down my neck. The question looped through my head with every step, no answer in sight.
When this all started, the foundation had been punishment—community service dressed up as redemption. A photo op to scrub away my temper, my bad press, my reputation for breaking first and thinking later.
Then Ellery happened.
Somewhere between her endless to-do lists and the fire in her voice when she talked about helping kids who had nothing, she got under my skin. She didn’t flinch when I barked, didn’t bend when I pushed back. She just looked at me like she expected me to be better—and worse, made me want to be.
And now it was ending. After the gala, my record would be clear, my hours complete. She’d go back to building miracles, and I’d go back to pretending soccer was enough.
I planted another kick, harder this time. The ball screamed into the net and bounced out again.
I bent over, hands on my knees, breath ragged. The light was fading fast, the sky bleeding pink and orange over the bleachers. I looked toward the stands—empty rows, quiet and still—and imagined her sitting there anyway, clipboard in hand, that little half-smile tugging at her mouth.
I could almost hear her voice, “You’re aiming too low, Mason. Adjust your stance.”
The memory hit too clean. I let out a low laugh, the kind that hurt more than it helped.
You’re losing it.
I picked up the ball again and stood in the center circle, turning slowly, the world around me swallowed in twilight.
This field had always been my anchor. When everything else fell apart, I could come here and shut it out—noise, people, feelings. But tonight, the silence wasn’t peace. It was absence.
I thought about walking away. Just grabbing my gear, hitting the showers, locking this all back in the part of my brain labeled “mistakes.”
Instead, I kicked one last shot. It flew straight and true, slicing through the dimming light, smacking the net dead center.
The sound echoed back, sharp and final.
I stood there a long time after, staring at the goal like it might give me an answer.
It didn’t.
The stands stayed empty.
The air stayed still.
And all I could think was that maybe, for the first time in my life, winning wasn’t the point anymore.
I gathered my gear slowly, dragging it out like that would make the silence less heavy. Cleats, towel, water bottle—everything went into the bag with the dull rhythm of muscle memory. My legs ached, my shoulders burned, but none of it hurt as much as the quiet.
The sun had dropped completely now. Only the stadium lights kept the field alive, throwing long shadows across the grass. I sat on the bench for a second, elbows on my knees, just… listening. Nothing but the hum of the lights and the sound of my own breathing.
Out of habit, I pulled my phone from my bag. No new messages. Not from Cam, not from the team group chat, not from her.
I stared at the blank screen, thumb hovering.
You shouldn’t. You’re done. She doesn’t need you checking in like some broken record. You don't have the right to. Fuck, you shouldn't want to. She's not yours. You don't even?—
But my fingers were already moving, anyway.
Don’t forget to eat something. You always forget when you’re stressed.
I read the words twice. Too familiar, too soft, too much. Then I sighed and deleted them before I could make it worse.
