Chapter 5
SHEPHERD
Winning on the road is loud.
It’s not the crowd or the final whistle, but the aftermath. The locker room hums like a live wire, music thumping through the speakers while half the guys shout over each other like we didn’t just spend three hours trying to knock each other unconscious.
I drop onto the bench and peel my gloves off slowly, letting the noise roll over me. Across the room, Sebastian is already working.
No celebration. No downtime.
He’s crouched beside Kyler Adams, tape spread across the bench like surgical tools, fingers moving quick and precise as he checks the ankle Kyler twisted in the second quarter.
“Tell me where it hurts,” Sebastian says, calm and focused.
“Every-fucking-where,” Kyler groans. “I think I’m dying.”
“Nah. Dying people don’t whine this much.”
Kyler flashes a pained smile. “Admit it, Haynes. Life’s boring without me in your treatment room.”
Sebastian doesn’t even look up. “Truth. But I’ve named the plants after you in your absence. They’re better conversationalists and they don’t smell like hot meat.”
I huff a laugh.
That’s my brother. Same dry delivery whether we’re at home or in a stadium full of fifty thousand people.
The guys respect him. Not because he’s my brother, but because he’s good at what he does.
He’s more than earned his title as the Head Athletic Trainer for the Portland Rush.
And honestly, I’m kind of glad to have him around. He’s the one person I know I can trust.
Jake barrels past me, still buzzing from the win, helmet swinging from his hand. “Haynes!” he shouts. “You see that safety bite on the fake? Dude was LOST.”
“Yeah, I saw,” I tell him.
“You smiled,” Orry calls from across the room. “And you never smile during games.”
“That’s just my face, Whitfield,” I say automatically.
Bennett snorts. “Your face usually looks like you’re calculating tax returns.”
“Yeah well, football is math. What can I say?”
Boone tosses a towel at my head and I catch it without looking.
“Math doesn’t make people juke out of their cleats,” he says.
“Well then it’s a damn good thing I’m multi-talented.”
Laughter ripples through the room. I stand and move toward the water cooler, grabbing two bottles on instinct. One goes to Boone, who forgot to hydrate again. The other I toss toward Jake.
Caretaking is easier when it looks like habit.
Across the room, voices spike as Bennett and Orry forget they’re too amped up from the win to realize they’re being dicks to each other.
I step between them before it escalates. “Hey. Save it for film,” I say lightly.
Bennett exhales and Orry rolls his shoulders and just like that the tension dissolves.
I’d say I’m full of magic but I’m smart enough to know it’s all in the timing.
“Thanks, Dad,” Boone mutters behind me.
I clap him on his shoulder. “You’re welcome, son.”
More laughter surrounds the group before Coach storms through with post-game reminders—recovery, media, schedule—and the room shifts, our collective energy settling into something more grounded.
Sebastian stands, giving Kyler’s ankle one last test.
“You’re not running tomorrow,” he says.
“What the fuck, Haynes?”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Seb confirms. “Make sure you hit the ice bath. Let’s see if we can get that swelling down a bit.”
He walks away before Kyler can argue, already scanning for the next problem to fix.
Watching him like this still hits me sometimes.
Little brother energy gone. Authority in its place.
And he owns it. I’m so fucking proud of him.
It can’t have been easy living in a household as the youngest brother of triplets who participated in any and all sports we could get our hands on growing up.
Well, except for basketball.
Killian and Bishop and I were a force to be reckoned with for as long as I can remember. When Sebastian came along we were all excited for a little brother. He loved sports as much as we did and was always our biggest cheerleader, but playing them? It just wasn’t his thing.
Science was his thing. His passion. Somehow we all knew he would go into the medical field and to see him now, doing what he loves, with the team I play for…yeah. It’s fucking awesome and I never take it for granted.
Jake nudges me with his elbow. “You’re in a weirdly good mood.”
I shrug, twisting the cap off my water bottle.
He’s not wrong. Something does feel lighter tonight. Not because of the win. Wins feel good in that familiar, all-in-a-day’s-work kind of way. But this…this feels different. And a little unexpected.
A laugh echoes in my memory, sharp and unapologetic, along with something about professional athletes being nothing but grown men in expensive pants.
And I grin despite myself.
Orry catches it immediately and points to me. “See? That. That smile. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
“Sus, bro,” Bennett says. “Clearly it’s not nothing.”
“Suspicious, indeed,” Boone agrees.
“Yo, Haynes!” Micah Brannigan, one of our equipment managers, calls out. His voice carries across the locker room as he scoops up my helmet along with Jake’s. “Heard you got yourself a pretty little waitress, huh?”
The room goes quiet.
How the fuck does he know this?
My jaw tenses as I look at him. Something about this fuckwad has always rubbed me the wrong way but I can’t put a finger on why.
Maybe it’s that his personality reminds me of some of the disrespectful douche nozzles I went to high school with.
Or maybe it’s that he’s a walking talking chauvinistic asshole with clearly no self-awareness.
“What do you know about it?” I say evenly.
Micah shakes his head. “Oh nothing. Just heard from a buddy of mine that Shepherd Haynes was flirting with a girl in a bar. That’s all.” He gives me a light fist to the upper arm. “Proud of ya, man.”
I narrow my eyes. “Thanks.”
He picks up Kyler’s helmet and puts it under his arm.
“Bet she was real grateful for those tips, huh? Those waitress girls always are. Probably showed her appreciation real nice.” He makes an obscene gesture with his hips that has my blood instantly boiling.
“Some of them know how to say thank you, am I right?”
I’m on my feet before I even realize I’m moving. The bench scrapes loudly against the floor.
“You need to stop talking. Right fucking now.” My voice comes out low and dangerous.
Micah’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he laughs nervously, glancing around at the guys like he expects them to join in. “Come on, man. I’m only having some fun. We all know what those girls are like—”
“What exactly are they like, Micah?” I ask, my voice so controlled it barely sounds like me.
The room falls completely silent. Even the music seems to fade into the background. Micah, finally realizing he’s stepped in it, swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he takes a half-step back. “I just meant—”
“I think I know exactly what you meant.” I move closer, not touching him but making sure he feels my presence. “And you don’t know shit about her. Or any woman, apparently.”
Jake appears at my side, arms crossed. “Might want to walk that back, man.”
Micah looks around the room, searching for allies and finding none. The guys are either staring him down or deliberately looking away, the universal sign that you’re on your own, asshole. I don’t even have to be looking at them to know that’s what’s happening right now.
“Look, I was joking around,” Micah says, his voice higher than usual. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t even know the girl.”
“You did mean something by it, but you sure don’t know the girl. Thank fucking Christ for that,” I say quietly.
Sebastian appears at my side, his expression unreadable as he glances between Micah and myself. “Everything good here?”
“Just fine,” I answer, not taking my eyes off Micah. “Micah was just leaving to finish his job. Weren’t you?”
The equipment manager’s face flushes red as he mutters something under his breath and backs away, helmets clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Thought so,” I say, watching him retreat.
The tension in the room dissipates gradually, like air leaking from a balloon. Sebastian gives me a look—one of those silent communications we’ve perfected over the years—before moving on to check on the next injury.
I sink back onto the bench, suddenly aware of the guys watching me. It’s not like me to get heated. I’m the steady one, the guy who defuses situations, not creates them.
“Damn, Haynes,” Boone whistles low. “Never seen you get worked up like that over a girl.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t about a girl. It was about respect.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true. Something about Micah talking about Sutton that way—reducing her to some stereotype, some conquest—hit a nerve I didn’t know was exposed.
Orry drops down next to me, voice low enough that only I can hear. “He may be a chauvinistic dumbass, buuuut… is he right? You flirting with a girl?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not talking about this.”
I try my best to ignore his knowing grin and check the clock on the wall instead.
Bus leaves in twenty minutes.
If traffic’s decent…
If she’s working tonight…
I shake my head, grabbing my towel, then move quickly to the showers. The thoughts of Sutton don’t go away though, and for the first time all day, I find myself wanting our time in Seattle to be over. Not because I’m tired, but because there’s somewhere else I’d rather be.
I step under the hot spray of the shower, letting it pound against my shoulders. The water pressure’s decent for a visitor’s locker room, and for a minute I just stand there, letting the heat work into muscles that will definitely be complaining tomorrow.
Sutton wouldn’t be impressed by sore muscles either. She’d probably roll her eyes and tell me it’s what I signed up for, which makes me laugh because once again, she wouldn’t be wrong.
“Haynes!” Coach’s voice carries over the shower wall. “Media’s waiting!”