Chapter 8 Mads
Mads
Ihate game day.
Not the actual game. That part’s fine. Good, even. That part’s what I’m here for. But everything leading up to it? Absolute torture.
Me? I like quiet. Space. Maybe a moment to myself where I can remind my ever-spinning brain what a football is before someone tries to break my ribs.
I’m not one for speeches, though being captain means I’m stuck giving them.
I keep it short—say what needs saying, nothing more.
Get your heads on straight, do your job, don’t fuck it up.
Then I shut up and let the silence settle, because that’s what I need before the whistle.
But today, I don’t get that.
Today, I get Blake.
Or rather, the absence of her. The worry she’s still not okay. The flash of her injured wrists in my head on repeat. The image of her in my bed, not the way I imagined, which—fine, I imagine it a lot—but tied up and scared out of her mind? Not part of the fantasy.
Tied up, maybe. I shake the thought from my head, because it’s more fucked up than I care to lean into after finding her like that.
I have this unshakable feeling that there’s something she’s not telling me, and the overwhelming need to protect her from whatever it is.
She swore she was fine. Swore she’d see the trainer and have them treat her injuries, but I don’t think she did.
I can’t fathom a reason in existence for why she’d want to keep any of this a secret, because my first instinct was to report everything to an adultier adult.
Campus security. Our coaches. Anyone with a clipboard.
But I, unfortunately, will do anything she asks of me without many questions asked in return.
The days after blurred together. Class, practice, study, repeat.
She kept her head down and didn't miss a single thing. Showed up early to lifts, crushed drills. But the elephant never left the room. She didn’t talk about what happened.
Not to me, not to anyone that I know of.
Just kept pushing forward like sheer force of will could erase it.
So, yeah. No mental prep for me today.
Just worry.
And now? Game time.
I’m halfway into my jersey, tugging it down over my chest, when Luca throws an arm across my shoulders. “Head on straight today?” he asks, which is code for get your shit together, or we’re going to lose.
I nod. “Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m still your best shot at keeping the goal clean, so maybe trust that I’ll use my issues to my advantage? We don’t have time for a therapy session.”
He backs off, muttering something in Spanish that I’m pretty sure translates to “emotionally constipated dick.”
Warmups are a blur. The opposing team’s midfielders are smug and fast and already showing off.
The whistle blows. We start.
And for a little while, it’s muscle memory. The rush, the angles, the patterns. I block two clean shots in the first twenty minutes and nearly start to believe I’m back on my game.
Then I see her.
Blake. On the sidelines. She’s in her warm-ups, sleeves shoved to her elbows, a water bottle dangling loose in her hand.
Her ponytail’s pulled high, strands already coming loose around her face, and she’s laughing at something one of the athletic trainers says.
The sight knocks me sideways harder than any player on this field could.
I should be tracking the ball. Instead, I’m tracking her.
Every tilt of her head, every shift of her weight.
She's watching me.
And just like that, I’m toast.
The next shot’s a bullet from inside the box. I react late, dive too far left, and get a cleat to the ribs for my effort.
Collision. Pain. Whistle.
I roll over, coughing once, just to see if my lungs still work, and blink up at the trainer.
I’m fine. Goalies don’t go down unless something’s actually wrong, and even then, we shake it off.
Not like the strikers who act like they’ve been shot every time they get clipped by the toe of someone’s boot.
Not like Chase, who once limped for a week after stubbing his toe on the leg of one of the benches.
“You okay, Keller?”
“Define okay,” I grunt out.
“You’re not dying?”
“Not yet.”
They help me up. Blake’s face is pale against the backsplash that is the crowd, and it’s all I see.
The rest of the match is a blur of adrenaline and stubbornness. I play through the ache, ignoring the tug in my ribs every time I twist. We win, barely.
After the final whistle, I head toward the locker room with a limp and the rush of blood still hammering in my ears. I toss my gloves on the bench and sit down hard.
The guys are hyped, yelling, half-dressed, dripping sweat and victory. It always takes forever in here—stretching, getting patched up, coaches barking, everyone talking over each other.
I’m just tired. Just want to get back to Blake. She bailed right after the game, and I know she went straight home. My little homebody doesn’t need to be alone at the flat any longer than necessary.
I peel off my shirt and open my duffel to grab a change of clothes. The rest of the team is buzzing, loud with the kind of adrenaline that makes every win feel bigger than it is. My shoulder throbs where I hit the turf, my ribs still ache from that last collision, but I’ll deal with it later.
I should be soaking it in, celebrating with the guys, replaying the saves and the final whistle.
But all I can think about is Blake on the sideline.
How she looked when the game ended, half-smile tugging at her mouth like she couldn’t decide whether to clap for me or throw a water bottle at my head for all the mistakes I made while distracted.
And I can’t stop wondering—was she there for me?
Or was she just restless, wanting to be out and about, and I happened to be the unfortunate entertainment she landed on?
The idea that she might’ve chosen to watch me on purpose is nice, but unlikely.
I shove my jersey into the bag and zip it closed with more force than necessary. The guys are still riding the high, but I move through the motions. Shower, change. By the time I’m lacing up my shoes, my head’s already somewhere else.
I wish we could have walked back together, maybe even hand in hand. God, I want that more than anything.
But that’s a daydream that won’t be coming true anytime soon, because Blake doesn’t wait around for me or anyone else. She wouldn’t, no matter how much I wish she thought of me the way I can’t seem to stop thinking of her.
So I sling my bag over my shoulder and head back to the flat, where I know I’ll find her.
Maybe she’ll even nurse my injuries if I play pathetic enough. More likely, she’ll call me a drama queen and tell me to walk it off. Either way, I’ll take it.