21. Xander #2
As I pushed through the door, I nearly slammed into Ben Carter. The young midfielder was just arriving with his gear bag, a compression wrap visible on his hamstring.
“Oh, hey, Xander,” he said, completely missing the drama behind me. “How’s it going?”
“Been better,” I admitted.
Ben nodded. “Yeah, I saw the news. Rough stuff.” He paused, then added quietly, “For what it’s worth, I think it’s all bullshit.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
He shrugged with a small smile. “No problem. See you out there?”
I nodded, and he continued into the lion’s den. Behind him, I heard Diego start up again. But at least one person didn’t think I was complete garbage. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.
The practice field felt like freedom after the suffocating locker room. I jogged some warmup laps, trying to clear my head.
As the rest of the team arrived, Coach Wilkes gathered us for instructions, outlining scrimmage exercises focused on ball control and quick transitions. When he split us into groups, I noticed he put me on the opposite side from Diego—small mercies.
“Carter,” Coach called, “you’re on limited participation today. Go get cleared first.”
Ben nodded and jogged to the sideline where the physical therapy team waited. I looked for Tara’s dark hair. She wasn’t there—just two junior therapists I recognized.
“McCrae!” Coach barked. “You with us or daydreaming?”
I snapped back to reality. “Sorry, Coach.”
He gave me a hard look. “Focus on the pitch, not your personal drama. I need your head in the game.”
“Yes, sir,” I muttered, joining my group.
Practice started okay. I threw myself into drills, channeling all my anger into physical exertion. For brief moments, I could almost forget the dumpster fire my life had become—there was just the ball, the grass under my feet, the pure joy of the game I’d loved since I was a kid.
Reality crashed back when we switched to full-field scrimmage. Diego played center forward for the opposing side, matched directly against me. From the first whistle, he was all over me—fouling just subtly enough to avoid Coach’s notice, whispering shit whenever we got close.
“Saw your girlfriend on TV last night,” he murmured as we waited for a corner kick. “Nice rack on her. No wonder you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”
I ignored him, focusing on the ball’s path as it flew toward the goal.
“Though I gotta say,” he continued, “the doc’s more my type. All that repressed energy. Bet she’s wild once you get her going.”
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth nearly shattered.
Don’t react. That’s exactly what he wants .
The ball came our way, and I headed it clear, sending it upfield to a teammate. Diego jogged beside me as we repositioned.
“Too bad you fucked that up too,” he said casually. “Heard she won’t even look at you now. Can’t blame her. Who wants damaged goods?”
I missed a pass, the ball rolling past me as my concentration broke. Diego laughed, a low, satisfied sound.
“Thought so,” he said, breaking away to intercept the ball.
The scrimmage continued, and so did Diego’s psychological warfare. Every mistake I made—and there were plenty as my focus crumbled under his constant attacks—was met with another cutting remark about Brittany, about Tara, about my drinking, about my failures on and off the pitch.
I was ready to explode by the time Coach called a water break. My hands shook as I grabbed my bottle, gulping water like it might wash away the fury building inside me.
“You’re letting him get to you,” a quiet voice said beside me.
I turned to find Ben, his hamstring now free of the wrap, pulling on his practice jersey.
“Doc cleared you to play?” I asked, ignoring his comment.
He nodded. “Limited minutes. But yeah, I can join the scrimmage now.”
I capped my water bottle, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Good for you.”
Ben hesitated, then added, “Look, I know Diego’s being a dick. He’s always like that when he feels threatened. But don’t let him?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off, harsher than intended.
Ben raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, man. Just trying to help.”
I sighed, immediately regretting my tone. “Sorry. I appreciate it. Just... got a lot on my mind.”
“No kidding,” Ben said with a sympathetic grimace. “If you want to grab a beer after practice, talk it out...”
The offer was genuine, and for a moment, I considered it. But the thought of adding another person to the collateral damage of Hurricane Xander made me pause. Ben was a good kid. He didn’t deserve to get sucked into my mess.
“Thanks,” I said instead. “But I’ve got some things to take care of.”
Coach’s whistle ended the break. As we jogged back onto the field, I spotted Tara standing near the facility entrance, clipboard in hand, apparently watching Ben’s return to practice.
My heart did a painful flip. Even from a distance, I could see how rigid her shoulders were. She didn’t glance my way once, her attention locked entirely on Ben as he rejoined the scrimmage.
“Second half!” Coach called. “Same teams, full intensity. Let’s go!”
The scrimmage started again, but my mind wasn’t on the game. All I could think about was Tara, standing yards away, deliberately avoiding me. Was she here for Ben, or was she watching me too? Did she believe Brittany’s bullshit?
“McCrae!” Coach bellowed. “Pay attention!”
Too late, I realized the ball was coming my way. I scrambled to position myself, but Diego was already there, intercepting the pass meant for me.
“Still daydreaming about the baby mama?” he taunted as he dribbled past. “Or is it the good doctor over there you can’t get out of your head?”
I charged after him, all technique forgotten in a red haze of rage. Diego easily dodged my clumsy approach, laughing as he kept the ball.
“Since she’s available now,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll give her another shot. Show the Doc what a real man feels like.”
Something inside me snapped. The guilt and self-hatred, the public humiliation, and the raw, aching loss of Tara’s trust—it all exploded into one blinding moment of fury.
I don’t remember deciding to hit him. Next, my fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack that vibrated up my arm.
Diego went down hard, clutching his face. Blood leaked between his fingers from a split lip. The practice field erupted—players rushing toward us, coaches blowing whistles, everyone shouting at once.
Through the chaos, my eyes found Tara. She stood frozen at the sideline, her clipboard forgotten, her face scrunched into horror and disappointment. I’d just proven her father right. I was exactly what Hank and everyone thought I was, a violent, out-of-control disaster.
Coach Wilkes grabbed my arm, his face purple with rage. “McCrae! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t tear my gaze from Tara’s stricken expression. Someone was helping Diego up. Blood stained the front of his jersey.
“You’re suspended!” Coach roared right in my face. “Get off my field! NOW!”
Two assistant coaches appeared, flanking me. As they escorted me off, I finally looked away from Tara, unable to bear her judgment anymore.
The walk back to the locker room passed in a blur. My hand throbbed where it hit Diego’s face, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I’d lost control. Again.
I changed in the empty locker room, moving like a robot, pulling on street clothes, gathering my stuff, my mind a static buzz of self-hatred.
You’ve ruined everything. When will you fucking learn?
As I pushed through the door, gym bag over my shoulder, I half-expected to find Hank waiting to gloat. Instead, it was Leo, his face grim as he took in my disheveled state.
“I got a call from the team office,” he said simply.
I nodded mutely, following him toward the exit.
Outside, the sun hit like a spotlight. I squinted against it, feeling exposed as Leo led me to the waiting car.
“What happens now?” I asked, voice like gravel.
Leo sighed, opening the car door. “Now we do damage control. The lawyer’s still coming this afternoon. We’ll figure out a statement about both the Brittany situation and... this.”
I collapsed into the back seat, suddenly exhausted to my bones. “What’s the point? It’s over, Leo. Hank won.”
Leo slid in beside me, his expression unusually fierce. “It’s not over until you say it’s over. Are you really going to let him win like this? After everything?”
I leaned back, closing my eyes. In my mind, I saw Tara’s face—not as it had been on the field, full of disappointment, but as it had been that morning in her apartment, soft with sleep and trust, her eyes full of a future I’d barely dared to imagine.
“No,” I said finally, barely audible. “No, I’m not.”
But who was I kidding? I may finally have played a hand I couldn’t win.