Back on the Field
Cohen
The sound of the turf beneath my cleats is one I could recognize out of a thousand.
That first step onto the pitch hits almost physically—right in the chest, in the gut, in the bones.
It smells like old rain and fresh sweat.
I’d been a bundle of nerves.
Tense, irritable, pissed off… yesterday’s press statements still burn.
But all of that faded the second I stepped into the locker room.
The guys greeted me with a roar.
“Becker!” someone shouted, and a moment later I was swallowed in a full-team hug that knocked the air right out of me.
Derek “The Wall” Haskins—center back and gym fanatic—practically crushed me alive.
He squeezed like he was trying to test the durability of my ribcage.
“Welcome back, brother!”
Tayler “Turbo” Klein called me a proud asshole but then said he’d missed me too much.
Classic him: insult first, emotion later.
Harrison “Doc” Monroe gave me his usual stern look.
“Don’t do anything stupid again. The team needs you.”
Translation: he wants me here, even if he’ll never admit it.
Liam “Blaze” Whitford told me he’s going to kick my ass on the field, and we both burst out laughing.
That’s our language—challenges and jokes.
And then there was Javier “Saint” Delgado.
He looked a little awkward, hesitant to talk to me.
He hung back, and I know exactly why.
The captain’s armband isn’t on my arm anymore.
It’s on his.
When I saw him walk in wearing it, my stomach tightened for half a second.
Then I was the one who walked over to him. Gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“You earned it.”
He lifted his gaze, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure whether to thank me or apologize.
But he didn’t need to say anything.
He’s my friend, my teammate.
He’s talented, steady, disciplined.
He really does deserve it.
After the emotional reunion, Coach Heart blasted our eardrums with his whistle.
He said he was done with our “soap-opera nonsense” and ordered us to get our asses on the field.
Now we’re outside, on the grass.
The guys warm up quietly.
Someone laughs, someone focuses.
I’m in the middle: hands on hips, deep breaths, muscles remembering what to do even when my head’s somewhere else.
The coach’s whistle snaps me back.
Julian Heart paces along the sideline, sports jacket open, that steel stare I know way too well locked on us.
I run toward the touchline, ball at my feet.
The smell of wet grass mixes with the cold air.
One touch, two, three.
The body responds before the mind.
And for a moment—just a moment—everything feels simple again.
The rhythm. The breath. The sound of my steps cutting across the field.
“Faster!” Heart yells.
I obey.
Change direction, push forward, pass.
I know I can’t afford distractions…
and yet I have one. Constant. Relentless. Lodged somewhere behind my eyes.
I dreamed about her again last night.
Didn’t sleep afterward, obviously.
My eyes burn, but I need to focus on this damn ball and stop thinking about her.
Tayler jogs past and sends me the ball.
“You good, Becker?”
“Perfect.”
I send it back a little too hard.
Heart whistles, sharp and annoyed.
“Control, Becker! Is your brain in your feet or what?”
“Testing the wind, coach!”
Laughter ripples through the guys.
Of course he doesn’t appreciate it. I can feel his growl from across the field.
I force my mind back into the drills and push harder.
The problem is… even when I slip fully into being Cohen Becker again—the player, the captain-without-the-armband—
part of me stays behind.
With her.
What is Sloane doing right now?