Page 27 of Hometown Halftime

Brooke gives me a pitying look. “We’ll see.”

Kinsey folds her arms considering the idea. Then I notice a little shift in her movement. Her weight shifts from one leg to the other, like she’s testing which side feels better. I’ve watched enough injured teammates to recognize the micro-adjustments people make when something hurts.

“We’ll talk more about fundraising next week,” Kinsey says, bringing the chaos to a manageable simmer. “Good ideas today. Keep thinking.”

The girls gather their bags, still arguing about whose yoga form would be worse. Slowly, the field empties until it’s just me and Kinsey loading cones and balls into bags.

That’s when I notice it again—the way she hesitates before bending, like she’s choosing how to move. The way she straightens with more caution than effort.

I try to play it cool, but the more I watch, the more it’s obvious.

“Are you alright?” I ask finally.

She doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re moving differently today.”

The second the words leave my mouth, her shoulders tense and her lips press together.

“I’m not moving differently,” she says.

“I mean, maybe not different,” I backtrack gently, “just…careful.”

She shuts the shed door harder than necessary. “I’m always careful.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Riley?”

Her tone isn’t sharp, but it’s the verbal equivalent of crossing her arms without actually doing it. I steady myself.

“I meant,” I say, “you looked like you were in pain.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Kinsey—”

“I said I wasn’t.”

The words slam tight between us. She steps back, putting space where there wasn’t any seconds ago.

I lift both hands, palms out. “I’m not trying to push. I just noticed, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t.” She grabs her bag from the grass. “I don’t need my assistant coach monitoring my movements.”

I swallow, choosing my next words carefully. “I’m not monitoring anything. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I say, voice firm.

Her eyes flick to mine in quick, startled irritation, like the idea of someone caring feels worse than the pain she’s pretending isn’t there.

“I’m fine,” she repeats, quieter. “Drop it.”

The old version of me might have apologized immediately and pretended I hadn’t seen anything.

“Okay,” I say. “Dropping it. For now.”

Her brows knit. “For now?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “If you ever want help or need a break, I’m right here. But I’m not going to force anything. I’m not your doctor.”