Pff
Cohen
I’m in hell.
Not the one with the red angel and the vanilla scent.
The real one.
The one with the air that smells of plastic and disinfectant, and a clock ticking like a death sentence.
The coach's office is a cell.
No windows, just the constant sound of the air conditioning and the feeling that the air shrinks every time someone talks.
Or screams.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve gotten yourself into?”
The coach’s voice is low, but it vibrates.
He doesn’t need to shout.
It’s the calm before the storm—the one that’s scariest.
I sit across from him, back straight, jaw clenched, hands clasped on the table to keep from breaking something.
Nate is next to him, standing, arms crossed. He won’t look at me.
And that irritates me more than anything.
“Got anything to say, Becker?”
I breathe.
No.
I don’t want to say a damn thing.
But I do anyway. “I didn’t realize going out for a drink was a crime.”
“Christ, Cohen,” Nate snaps, finally, “we asked you to keep a low profile. And, more importantly, stop hooking up with the fans!”
Fuck you, Nate, I preferred you silent.
A dry smile crosses my face. “She wasn’t a fan.”
“Oh, she wasn’t?” The coach stands up. “Then what was she? A miracle? You were supposed to BE GOOD. Is that so hard?”
Did the coach just tell me I can only hook up with someone who isn't a fan if a miracle happens? Are we serious?
I want to reply that yes, maybe it was a miracle. Though… for a completely different reason than he thinks.
But I don't feel like digging my own grave.
I stay quiet.
I let the anger settle beneath my skin, like a burn.
Nate rubs his face, tired. He’s pale, his eyes lined. Two weeks of hell for him, too, apparently.
“We had to cancel three interviews, two events, and a campaign. The club fined you, and the press is painting you as yet another soccer player who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”
He pauses.
“Tell me at least she wasn’t underage.”
“Christ, Nate!” Fuck, does he really think so little of me?
I jump to my feet.
My chair scrapes against the floor, and the noise echoes in my skull.
“Sit down.” The coach’s voice cuts the air.
It chills me.
I sit.
Not out of respect. Out of survival.
“There are photos, Cohen.”
“I know.”
“And do you know who took them?”
I shake my head.
“No one should even have a phone in there,” I say quietly.
I know Dominic had one. Apparently, he can do anything in there. For what fucking reason? I have no idea.
“Yet someone did. But the point is, if you stay in your lane, no one cares to photograph you.”
I refuse to name him. I trust him and know he wasn’t the one who betrayed me.
Silence.
Only the sound of my breathing, too heavy.
I don’t look at the screen when Nate sets it on the table, but I see it anyway.
Her from the chin down, white wings, my hand on her skin.
You can’t see anything, but you understand everything.
Or at least… I see myself perfectly. I was right, I looked ridiculous with those black wings.
My stomach burns.
I'm tired.
Calls, articles, gossip, memes.
PR telling me what to say, executives pretending to care while calculating the worth of my ruined image.
And the worst part?
I can't stop thinking about her.
The way she looked at me before kissing me.
As if she knew exactly what was about to happen.
As if she planned it.
Her voice, low and velvety, echoes in my mind: Bang.
And my heart makes that sharp noise in my chest again.
“Cohen.”
I look up. Nate watches me, serious. “The press wants a comment. Official. Written. By tonight. And there’s a conference Friday.”
“What do I have to say?”
“That you’re sorry. That you take responsibility. That you respect the club and its values.”
I translate in my head: That you kneel and beg forgiveness for doing what any other fucking twenty-seven-year-old in the world can do without a problem.
I lean back in my chair.
“I’m not sorry.”
The coach slams a fist on the table. “Fuck, Becker!”
“No,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m not. I’m sorry there are photos, I’m sorry you have sponsor issues, but I’m not sorry for what I did.
I don’t believe my performance on the field is affected by my private life!
” I don't think I've ever raised my voice in the coach's office or to him in general. .. but this pressure is too much.
Silence.
Nate inhales slowly. “Do you know what happens if you keep this up?”
The coach looks at me. His vein is ready to burst. He says nothing. He just scrutinizes me in that way that tells me clearly without needing words: I’m not indispensable.
It doesn't matter how hard I worked to get here. It doesn't matter that I've won every fucking game for him since I joined the team.
I’m not indispensable.
“Yes.”
The coach leans forward, fingers interlaced in front of his mouth.
“You know what I think, Becker?”
I don’t answer. He’ll tell me anyway.
“That you have talent. But talent isn’t enough when people are ashamed to associate their name with yours.”
The silence that follows weighs like lead.
I hear the clock ticking on the wall and somehow it seems too loud and not loud enough at the same time. I try to focus on the scarf hanging on the wall: red and white. Lakewood FC.
“As of today, you’re on leave.”
It takes me a second to process what he just said.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Leave from what?”
“The team.”
My eyes instinctively snap back to that scarf.
The chair squeaks when I jump up. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course we can.” The coach’s voice is calm, glacial. “Until Friday’s press conference, you’re out. No practice, no meetings, no social media presence. You’re taking a forced break.”
“A fucking suspension, you mean.”
Nate sighs. “Leave. It sounds better for the papers.”
I feel like laughing, but no sound comes out.
Leave.
What a shitty word.
The coach stands up, walks around the desk.
“You will attend the press conference. You will say what we tell you to say. You will apologize. You will take responsibility and make it look like a youthful mistake. Then we’ll evaluate.”
“Evaluate what?”
“If you’re still worth keeping.”
The way he says it hits me harder than a slap.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't threaten.
He simply doesn't care.
And in that indifference lies my entire condemnation.
I bite my tongue not to react.
Not to say what burns in my throat: that I made them win, that I gave everything, that the field is the only thing I've never gotten wrong.
But it’s no use.
Words don’t matter in here.
Headlines matter. Photos. Covers.
“You can go,” the coach says, returning to his chair.
Just that.
The end.
I leave without saying goodbye.
I hear the office door close behind me, and the sound is like a whistle in my ears.
Leave.
Right.
The hallway is long, empty, lit by lights that are too white.
Every step echoes on the tiles.
I walk to the locker rooms.
No one is there, just the smell of detergent and old sweat. The jerseys hung up, tidy, as if nothing happened.
Mine is there, in its spot. Number 9.
Hanging, clean, perfect.
It looks like someone else’s. Maybe it will be soon…
I sit on the bench, hands in my hair.
I don’t know how much time passes.
It could be five minutes or an hour.
All I feel is the anger pulsing.
The fear trying to slip through the cracks.
And the realization that, for the first time in my career, I don't know if I’ll still have a place here next week.
It doesn’t depend on me.
Not on my talent, not on the games I won.
It depends on how many signatures get wiped off contracts.
How many companies decide my face no longer sells.
I close my eyes.
I see the lights of The Aureum again, the white feathers, her mouth saying bang.
A moment.
Just a moment of real life.
And now… all of this.
I stand up.
My hands are itching to smash something.
Instead, I grab my duffel bag, sling it over my shoulder, and leave.
It’s raining outside, naturally.
The whole city seems designed to spit on you when you’re already down.
I get in the car, slam the door, and just sit there.
Rain on the windshield, wipers that can’t keep up.
My phone vibrates on the seat. Notifications, messages, missed calls. Surely many notifications are from Nate. But no, I’m not going to talk to him. I don’t want any more lectures, sermons, directives.
Everyone wants something from me.
I breathe.
I don’t answer anyone.
The anger pulses inside me, constant.
The coach wants apologies, the papers want blood, and I…
I don’t even know what the fuck I want.
I start the engine.
The headlights cut through the rain, the road ahead fading into the dark.