“Touché, Saint Beckett,” Adam said, grinning wide.
That got another round of laughs. The nickname stuck instantly—light, mocking, but with enough edge to make my teeth grind.
Saint Beckett.
Perfect.
I smirked anyway, masking the irritation bubbling underneath. “Keep talking, Hart. Maybe one day you’ll actually back it up.”
He just winked, sauntering back toward midfield. “Careful, Mason. People might start thinking charity work’s mellowed you out.”
Kyle didn’t add anything else, but when our eyes met across the field, there was something sharp there. Rivalry. History. The kind that didn’t fade with time or distance.
We’d played together for years—different positions, different temperaments. Kyle was the golden boy: precise, disciplined, the league’s PR dream. I was the one who hit too hard, talked too much, and gave the press a reason to keep writing.
Two sides of the same coin, and we both knew it.
The whistle blew for the next rotation. I jogged to my spot, shaking the tension from my shoulders. Hart’s laughter still carried faintly from behind me, but I tuned it out.
Focus. Ball. Goal.
The rest was just noise.
I took the pass, cut left, and struck clean. The ball sliced through the mist and hammered the back of the net with a satisfying thud.
“Nice one, Saint,” Adam called, clapping slowly.
I didn’t look at him this time. Just grabbed the next ball from the rack, set it down, and hit again—harder, sharper, each shot landing with the precision of a grudge.
They could joke about community service, about charity gigs and photo ops, about me pretending to smile for the cameras. They didn’t get it.
On the field, I didn’t have to.
Here, I didn’t need saving—or forgiveness.
Here, I just needed the ball, the goal, and a reason to keep proving I wasn’t done yet.
Scrimmage days always brought the best out of everyone—or the worst, depending on how you looked at it.
The air was sharp with cold, the sky still the same heavy gray it had been since sunrise. Cleats scraped across damp turf, the sound of shouted passes echoing across the Storm’s training field.
Kyle lined up a shot near the edge of the box. Smooth, clean, textbook form—of course he nailed it. The ball curved past the keeper and slammed into the net.
Teammates cheered. A couple clapped him on the back. Coach Lawson, arms crossed near midfield, gave one of his rare approving nods.
“Good read, Reynolds,” he called.
Kyle jogged back to position, the picture of composure.
Then it was my turn.
I took the pass, sprinted down the line, cut inside—and sent the ball flying. It smacked hard against the post and bounced out.
A whistle from midfield. Adam Hart grinning, of course. “Guess charity work’s making you soft, Mason.”
Laughter followed—good-natured on the surface, but I could feel the sting underneath.
I rolled my shoulders, turned toward him. “Keep talking, Hart. Maybe I’ll teach you how to finish a play.”
