Kyle’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t get defensive. I’m not threatened, man. I know she’s got you helping her. It’s… cute.”
My jaw clenched. “Cute?”
He shrugged, casual as ever. “She’s passionate, sure. But you know how Ellery is — gets wrapped up in her projects. She’ll burn herself out if someone doesn’t tell her to slow down.”
That laugh of his — the one that used to charm reporters and sponsors — grated against every nerve I had left.
“Maybe,” I said, my voice dropping, “if you told her that, she wouldn’t have to do everything alone.”
The room went still again.
No one spoke. No one moved. You could hear the hum of the overhead lights and the faint slap of someone’s cleats against the floor in the next hallway over.
Kyle’s smile slipped, just a little. “You don’t know her like I do.”
I stared at him, pulse pounding, every word feeling heavier than it should’ve. “You don’t know her at all.”
The silence that followed was brutal, pressing down on all of us. Even Adam, who never shut up, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.
Kyle was the first to move. He grabbed his water bottle, stood, and said coolly, “You should watch how you talk to me, Mason."
“Maybe you should watch how you treat her,” I shot back.
He stopped in the doorway, shoulders tense. For a second, I thought he’d say something — maybe swing, maybe just throw another perfectly measured insult. But he didn’t.
“Mason. Reynolds. My office. Now.” Coach Lawson’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. The rest of the room scattered fast — everyone suddenly remembering they had something urgent to do elsewhere.
Kyle stood first, expression perfectly neutral, the same one he used after taking a foul — calm, detached, like he was already over it. He didn’t look at me, not once. Just grabbed his water bottle, ran a hand through his hair, and walked toward Lawson’s office.
I followed, still breathing hard. My pulse hadn’t slowed since I’d stepped into that doorway.
Lawson’s office smelled like coffee and turf — small space, big silence. He sat behind the desk, black hoodie, dark circles under his eyes, the same unimpressed expression he’d been perfecting since the day I joined this team.
“Sit,” he said.
Kyle did. I didn’t.
Lawson sighed. “Fine. Stand. Whatever makes you feel like a rebel.” He looked between us. “Now, which one of you geniuses wants to tell me why I just walked in on the world’s dumbest pissing contest?”
Kyle lifted a hand like it was nothing. “It was a misunderstanding.”
That almost made me laugh — the kind of bitter sound that never makes it out.
Lawson turned to me. “Mason?”
“Nothing to add.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, no punches thrown, no property damaged, just a good old-fashioned staring contest?”
I didn’t answer.
Kyle shrugged. “Pretty much.”
Lawson rubbed his temples like we were giving him an actual migraine. “You two realize we’ve got sponsors watching practices, right? You think they want to see this?”
Neither of us spoke.
