25 written all over
Coach blows the whistle for the third time in twenty minutes and points directly at me. "Bennett."
The entire field goes quiet in that specific way teams do when somebody's getting called out publicly.
I pull my mouthguard halfway out. "What?"
Coach stares at me like he's debating whether murder is legally defensible. "You planning on participating today or just spiritually attending practice?"
A few guys laugh under their breath.
Normally I'd have something sarcastic ready immediately.
Today I just shove the mouthguard back in and jog toward the next drill without answering.
Because honestly?
He's right.
I'm playing like absolute shit.
I miss a catch ten minutes later.
Miss another read after that.
Nearly get flattened during drills because my brain is apparently somewhere six states away replaying one sentence over and over again.
Get in line, Coleman.
I shouldn't have said it.
I know that now.
The problem is that knowing it doesn't magically unsay it.
"Focus, Bennett," Scott mutters while lining up beside me.
"Helpful."
"You dropped two passes."
"Three actually," Logan says from the other side of the line.
His voice is calm, too calm.
I glance over at him briefly. He's already looking at me.
And suddenly I understand why he's been hitting harder than usual all practice.
Not football hard.
Personal hard.
The whistle blows again.
Next play.
Logan comes at me faster this time.
I dodge the first hit barely, recover the route, catch the ball-
-and then Logan slams into me hard enough to send both of us into the turf.
The impact rattles through my ribs immediately.
Around us, a couple guys yell out.
Coach blows the whistle aggressively. "Jesus Christ, Coleman!"
Logan stands first like nothing happened.
I shove myself up slower, annoyed heat already climbing into my chest. "What the hell is your problem?"
Logan just shrugs once. "You seemed distracted. Thought I'd help."
Something in me snaps.
Probably because I already feel guilty.
Probably because I already know exactly why he's doing this.
So before I can stop myself, I spit out, "Of course she told you."
Logan blinks.
Actually blinks.
Then lets out one short laugh like he genuinely can't believe what he's hearing. "Everly didn't say a word."
That throws me off immediately.
I frown. "Bullshit."
"She didn't."
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Logan pulls off his helmet and wipes his forehead with the bottom of his shirt before looking back at me again.
"I know my sister," he says simply. "And it was written all over her face that something happened."
I stay quiet.
Because suddenly I can picture it too clearly.
Everly avoiding eye contact.
Getting quieter.
That look she gets when she's pretending she's fine but absolutely is not.
Logan shakes his head once. "Didn't take much to figure out who caused it."
That one lands harder than the tackle did.
Around us, practice starts moving again, guys resetting for the next drill, but the air between me and Logan stays tense and still.
Then Logan says, quieter now, "You know what pisses me off?"
I already know I'm not gonna like whatever comes next.
"I actually thought you were better than that."
And there it is.
The worst part.
Not the anger.
Not the threat.
The disappointment.
Because Logan isn't looking at me like he wants to fight me. He's looking at me like he expected more.
And somehow that feels worse.
I open my mouth automatically, ready with excuses.
She shouldn't matter this much.
It was complicated.
I panicked.
I didn't mean it.
But every single explanation sounds pathetic in my head before it even reaches my mouth.
So for the first time in maybe my entire life-
I have absolutely no comeback.
Logan stares at me another second before putting his helmet back on and walking away without another word.
The rest of practice goes downhill from there.
Scott catches up to me near the benches afterward while I'm yanking my gloves off harder than necessary. "What happened with Coleman?"
"Nothing."
Scott snorts. "You two looked one bad sentence away from a homicide."
"We're fine."
"Bennett."
I shove my stuff into my bag. "Drop it."
Scott studies me for a second longer like he knows I'm full of shit.
Which, unfortunately, I am.
But eventually he lets it go with a muttered,"Whatever, man."
The locker room empties slowly after that.
Voices echoing.
Showers running.
Music playing somewhere in the background.
But all I can think about is one thing.
Everly never told Logan.
Even after what I said to her.
Even after I hurt her.
She still protected me.
And somehow that makes the guilt feel ten times worse.