Chapter 13
Blake
The locker room hums with the kind of nervous energy that always settles in before kickoff. The sounds of zippers, muffled laughter, the slap of palms against thighs to shake out nerves—it all blends into a rhythm I know by heart. It should settle me.
Tonight, it barely scratches the edge of the storm in my head.
I tug my jersey over my head, the black fabric clinging for a second before I shake it into place.
Number six, bold and white across the back.
The logo—a coiled viper, fangs bared—catches the fluorescent light on my chest. Vipers.
Our name doesn’t feel like a mascot tonight.
It feels like a directive. Fast, relentless, lethal.
My shin guards scrape against my legs as I strap them on.
Cleats next—laces pulled so tight I can almost feel my circulation cut off, but I want it that way.
Every piece of gear is armor, every layer a promise that for ninety minutes, I’m not Blake-who-can’t-sleep, not Blake-who-saw-a-dead-kid-on-video, not Blake-who’s-in-too-deep.
I’m Blake Aster, striker, and my only job is to put the ball in the net.
Samira hums under her breath as she braids her hair, quick and neat.
Mayson paces, jersey half tucked, muttering strategy to herself.
Lucy’s already in full kit, gloves on, bouncing in place like she’s got caffeine for blood.
We’re all wound tight in our own ways, but the moment Coach Carmichael’s voice cuts across the room, it sharpens into focus.
“Let’s go, Vipers. Time to show them who owns this field.”
The cheer rises automatically—loud, raw, united. My throat strains with it, and for a second, the weight in my chest lifts.
We form the line, shoulder to shoulder, cleats clicking against the concrete tunnel. The stadium lights bleed in from ahead. The roar of the crowd grows louder with every step we take toward the field.
At kickoff, the whistle cuts through the night, sharp enough to slice through the last of my scattered thoughts.
We start aggressively, pushing into them before they can settle.
Mayson takes charge in the middle of the field, every touch crisp, her eyes flicking constantly around to see the whole picture before anyone else does.
Out wide, Sam is already sprinting down the left side, forcing their defender to chase her and pulling the shape of their back line apart.
That’s my cue. I drive forward into the heart of it, locking in shoulder to shoulder with their biggest defender, holding my ground and waiting for the opening I know is coming.
The first ten minutes are all noise and speed. Cleats sinking into the damp soil, the snap of passes connecting, the crowd’s energy rolling over us like a tide. Lucy shouts directions from the box, voice carrying across the pitch with that no-nonsense authority only a keeper can manage.
I get an early chance—Mayson threads the ball through the defense, perfectly timed so it rolls right into my path.
I take a touch to control it and go for the shot, but their goalkeeper reacts fast. She charges out before I can plant my second step, throwing herself at the ball.
In an instant, it’s gone, trapped under her body and the scramble of defenders closing in, my swing cut short in the mess of legs.
We regroup and press forward again. The ref whistles for a few fouls on both sides—nothing nasty, just the kind of small, scrappy clashes that always come with night games under the lights.
Shoulders bump, shins knock, and no one gives an inch.
Sweat’s already running down my back beneath the jersey, my lungs burning in a way that feels less like punishment and more like fuel.
After a week of nonstop spinning, my head’s finally clear, focused.
By the time the referee signals for the first water break, we’ve got them trapped in their own half, forced to defend wave after wave. Still, the scoreboard stares down at us, stubborn and unchanged: 0–0.
The rest of the game blurs into hard edges and rougher hits. Elbows jab when the ref’s turned away, cleats scrape down calves in scrambles for the ball, and late tackles skirt the line between reckless and outright malicious.
We hold our ground.
Lucy dives full stretch in the fifty-fifth minute to claw away a shot that looked unstoppable, her body stretched so far it’s a wonder she doesn’t snap in two.
Sam slices in from the left, unleashing a strike that rattles the crossbar and bounces out, the sound like a gut punch to the whole sideline.
And Mayson—she’s everywhere at once, directing traffic, barking orders, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead as if sheer willpower is the only thing keeping us upright.
My girls are impressive.
Me—I wait. I push forward again and again, lungs searing, legs heavy, until the chance finally breaks. Eighty-fourth minute. One of their defenders miscontrols, the ball slipping loose just long enough for Mayson to pounce. She scoops it up and threads it straight through the gap. It’s mine.
I sprint, cutting hard across their back line, every stride a gamble.
The goalie charges off her line—too fast, too confident, thinking she can smother it before I get there.
I plant, swing, and drive my foot through the ball, hammering it low and brutally into the bottom corner of the net.
The roar hits instantly, the crowd exploding, swallowing every thought in my head.
And then pain. A defender from the opposing team barrels through me late, shoulder slamming into my ribs, studs raking across my ankle as my body whips sideways. I crash onto the turf, the air ripped clean from my lungs, every nerve sparking where bone smacks ground.
The whistle comes, but it’s too little, too late.
I roll onto my side, gasping, grass sticking to the sweat on my face as I try to push myself up.
My ankle screams the second I put weight on it, buckling uselessly beneath me.
Pain lances sharp and hot, and I know before I even test it again that I’m not running this off.
The ref glances over, lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave, then turns his back and jogs toward midfield like I’m background noise instead of the player who just got flattened.
And then there’s Mads.
He’s suddenly there, storming past the sideline before anyone can stop him, fury written across every line of his body. “Are you blind?” he roars, voice carrying across the whole damn field. “She just got taken out—open your eyes!”
The ref tries to wave him off, but he’s relentless, pointing, shouting, daring anyone to pretend what just happened was clean.
Teammates are tugging at his arm, the other team’s bench is jeering, and still he doesn’t budge.
His focus is all on me, fire in his eyes, seconds away from picking me up and hauling me off himself.
The crowd loves it—half of them booing, half of them chanting his name.
I’m upright but barely, ankle screaming every time I shift my weight. I shake my head, trying to laugh through the pain. Because, of course, Mads would be Mads in an instance like this one.
Mayson rushes over, slipping an arm under mine before I can stumble again. The stadium noise swells around us, a wall of chaos, but all I can feel is the surge in me.
Pride in every ruthless second Mads spends berating the ref and the hungrier edge of wanting him for it.
The ref finally snaps, pointing toward the sideline and motioning for Mads to get off the field.
Coach Carmichael’s there in seconds, dragging him back by the arm, shouting over the crowd.
My teammates form a wall around me as the trainer jogs over, and I can still hear Mads’ voice echoing across the pitch, curses swallowed by the roar of the stands.
After the trainer fixes me up, I finish the match running on nothing but adrenaline, body strung tight, every second dragging.
The referee lifts the whistle to his mouth, three sharp blasts cutting through the noise.
Game over. The scoreboard stays frozen at 1–0—our goal is the only one all night. The Vipers win.
The crowd erupts, players throwing their arms up, some collapsing straight to the grass in relief. After ninety minutes of tackles, missed chances, and bruises that’ll bloom by morning, we’ve held them off. One goal was enough.
By the time I limp back into the locker room, my ankle taped tight, the noise from the stadium feels like a dream.
The girls are buzzing, replaying saves and tackles, high-fiving through exhaustion.
My jersey clings with sweat, grass stains streaking down my legs, but the ache in my body can’t touch the feeling of satisfaction.
I sink onto the bench, letting my head fall back against the cinderblock wall.
Across the room, Mayson’s already dissecting plays, Lucy peels off her jersey and immediately starts dancing, hips shaking like the scoreboard was all her doing.
Sam’s humming something under her breath as she shoves gear into her bag. Normal postgame chaos.
But through it all, I can feel him.
Mads is outside somewhere, pacing, probably still arguing with Carmichael, still furious at the ref, still burning with all the fire I saw when he charged onto the field.
My chest tightens, a mix of pain and something else I can’t name. Because the truth is, I’ve never had anyone lose their mind on my behalf before. Not like that.
I close my eyes, let the noise of my team wash over me, and try not to think about the fact that my ankle throbs in time with my pulse—and that Mads Keller just made it impossible to pretend this thing brewing between us is casual.