Chapter 11 Luke
ELEVEN
LUKE
Coach Harris blows his whistle, and I cut left, catching the pass clean and planting hard as I pivot—only for something to slip just a little under my cleats. The grass? My foot? Doesn’t matter. It’s not enough to send me flying, but I do stumble.
“Shit,” I mutter, catching myself with a hand on the turf. My knee twinges. Not pain, exactly. Just a flash of something.
“You good?” Will calls from downfield.
“Fine,” I say, already standing. Shaking it off. It wasn’t a fall. It wasn’t even bad footing. Just a moment. Nothing.
But I know the second I glance toward the sideline that someone else noticed too.
Silas.
He’s got that narrowed look in his eyes. Like he’s already rewriting the whole play in his head. Like he’s already made a decision. Sure enough, when the group breaks and we head toward the benches for water, his voice cuts through the buzz.
“Maddox. You’re out for the scrimmage.”
I freeze. “What?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You tweaked your knee.”
“I didn’t—” I start, then bite it back. My pulse spikes. “I’m fine.”
“We’re not risking it.”
“It wasn’t anything—”
“You’re benched,” he says, tone final.
The worst part is that he doesn’t even look at me when he says it. Like I’m just another player. Another number on his clipboard. Not the guy he railed against a locker hard enough to leave bruises over a week later and questions I still haven’t answered.
Heat spikes low in my gut—but it’s not lust. It’s anger. Frustration. Embarrassment.
I slam the water bottle down on the bench and stand there like an idiot while the rest of the team jogs back out. Ty gives me a look like, What the hell? and I shrug it off, jaw tight.
I stare at the back of Silas’s head, no, I correct myself, Coach Gray’s head, and if looks could kill, I’m sure he’d be dead on the sidelines. Fucker. I’m fine. I can play. My knee doesn’t even hurt.
He doesn’t even look back at me, and it makes my blood boil. I turn to Coach Harris. “I’m good to play, Coach.”
He looks at me and lifts a single eyebrow. “Coach Gray has the reins today, boy.”
I grit my teeth and pace in front of the bench. The scrimmage kicks off, and I try to keep my focus on the field, but all I see is Silas—Coach Gray—shouting calls like I don’t exist. As though I didn’t spend the last few weeks proving I belong out there.
My hands curl into fists.
Every sprint I ran. Every pass I caught. Every bruise still blooming across my ribs from getting slammed by two defenders during drills—and I walked it off. I’ve done everything right. Everything he’s asked.
But apparently one fucking stumble is enough to get sidelined.
I’m so worked up by the end of practice I barely hear Coach Harris calling it. The moment the whistle blows, I’m off the bench and stalking toward him. Him, not Harris.
Silas turns just as I approach, as if he knew I was coming.
And that expression? Blank. Unbothered. Infuriating.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, voice low but venomous. “You bench me in front of everyone like I’m made of glass?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares me down with that same cool detachment that makes me want to scream.
“No player is playing injured under my command.”
“I’m not injured,” I snap. “I didn’t even fall. It was a stumble, not a blowout. My knee doesn’t hurt. You’re being overly cautious.”
“I’m being responsible.”
I step closer, chest heaving. “No, you’re being a control freak.”
His jaw ticks. Barely. But it’s the first crack in the ice.
“You want to prove you’re strong? Then act like it,” he says. “Get cleared by the trainer. Until then, you're benched.”
“Seriously?” I bark. “You’re making me go to the trainer for a ghost twinge?”
He levels me with a stare. “That’s the protocol. And the standard. I don’t play favorites.”
No. Of course not. That would require acknowledging anything happened at all. That he ever touched me. Ever saw me as anything but a player in his drill book.
I stare at him for a long moment, breathing hard. Waiting. Hoping for something in his expression to shift. But he’s already walking away.
And I’m left burning on the field, surrounded by teammates who don’t know a damn thing, clutching a rage that isn’t just about being benched.
It’s about being disposable.
Again.
I shove the training room door open so hard it ricochets off the wall. Max doesn’t flinch.
Of course he doesn’t.
He’s exactly where I expect him—arms crossed, leaning against the edge of the training table like he’s been waiting to call someone an idiot all morning.
Probably has. He looks up from whatever injury chart he’s scribbling on, one brow already cocked.
He’s been surly since they transferred him to the football team.
"Let me guess," he says, voice flat. "You’re dying and need emergency amputation?"
“I need to be cleared to play.”
That gets both brows. “Cleared for what?”
I throw my arms out. “Coach Gray benched me. Said I needed the athletic trainer’s sign-off.”
Max blinks once. “What happened?”
“I tripped,” I grit out. “Literally. My cleat caught in the turf. One step. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move or soften. Just watches me with that signature Max judgment. “And Coach Gray benched you for tripping?”
“Apparently,” I snap. “Wants confirmation I’m not secretly broken.”
Max pushes off the table with a sigh that feels like it’s aimed directly at my soul. “God forbid I have a quiet afternoon.”
He pats the table. “Up.”
I climb onto the padded bench like it’s a throne of shame. Max doesn’t talk as he rolls up my pant leg and starts his full diagnostic routine—testing flexibility, rotation, pressure points. His touch is quick, clinical, zero comfort.
“Any pain?” he asks.
“No.”
“Swelling?”
“No.”
He eyes me. “Discomfort? Soreness? Twinge of mortality?”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
“You’re testy.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, louder.
Max raises a brow and presses just above my kneecap—hard. I grunt. It doesn’t hurt, but it surprises me.
“That wasn’t pain,” I bark.
“Sure,” Max mutters, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Coach Gray overreacting or not, you should still ice it tonight.”
“I don’t need—”
“Humor me, Maddox.”
I blow out a breath and rub a hand down my face. I’m still wound tight. Max isn’t the one I’m mad at—but he’s here, and Silas isn’t.
He glances up. “You gonna tell me why this is actually pissing you off, or are we pretending this is all about your knee?”
I stiffen.
He waits.
“I’m not talking to you about this.”
“I’m Eli’s boyfriend. That makes me emotionally qualified.”
“You’re the Grinch. Nobody thinks you’re emotionally qualified.”
“Exactly. No coddling. Just facts.”
I swing my legs off the table and mutter, “I slept with him.”
Max blinks. “Coach Gray?”
I nod.
He whistles. “And now he’s being weird?”
“He’s being professional.”
Max hums. “And you hate that.”
I glare at the floor. “He benched me like I’m some fragile little twink.”
“Did you just call yourself a fragile little twink?”
“Shut up.”
Max snorts and starts rolling tape back into place. “You’re cleared. Go tell your overprotective coach you passed with flying colors. Maybe he’ll let you back on the field. Or maybe he’s spiraling and doesn’t know what the hell to do with you.”
I stand. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t thank me. Just try not to blow your knee or your dignity trying to prove something.”
I flip him off as I leave. He waves like he’s unbothered. And I head out, still fuming—because he’s probably right.
And I still don’t know why that pisses me off more than anything.
I don’t even knock when I reach the coach’s office.
The locker room’s mostly cleared, just the echo of the last guys heading out, cleats scuffing tile and laughter bouncing off the walls. But the coach’s office door is cracked, and I can see him in there—alone. Sitting behind the desk like he’s king of the fucking universe.
I push it open harder than I need to.
Silas looks up. Calm. Blank-faced. As though he’s been waiting for me.
“Max cleared me.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Good.”
“Which means I was fine the whole time.”
“You weren’t evaluated when it happened,” he says evenly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t let players risk injury under my watch.”
“I wasn’t injured.”
“We didn’t know that.”
I step farther into the office, fists clenching at my sides. “I’m not fragile.”
His jaw ticks—just a twitch, but I catch it.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Didn’t have to,” I bite out. “You sidelined me like I couldn’t handle a little stumble.”
“I benched you because it’s summer camp, not the fucking playoffs,” he says, voice sharpening now. “You tweaked your knee ,and I made a judgment call. That’s my job.”
“No, your job is to coach me. Not coddle me.”
His eyes narrow. “You think this was personal?”
“You tell me.”
He stands then, slow, deliberate. The chair creaks behind him, and for a second, it’s just the sound of my heartbeat and the hum of the overhead light buzzing between us.
“You think I want to be in this position, Luke?” he says, voice low now. “You think I’m enjoying pretending that what happened in that locker room never happened?”
The air thickens. I swallow hard.
Silas steps around the desk but keeps his distance. “You think I don’t notice every time you look at me like you want to burn the whole place down?”
“I’m not the only one looking,” I say, just to push him. “You could’ve put anyone else on the bench today. Peoples tweaked his shoulder on a pass, even. But you didn’t.”
He holds my gaze, unreadable.
“I’m not fragile,” I say again, quieter now. “You’re just scared.”
His lips part like he’s about to say something—deny it, argue, throw it back in my face—but then he stops. And that silence says everything. I nod once.
“Thanks for the trust, Coach,” I mutter, voice flat as I turn to go. “Glad to know you’ve got my back. From the bench.”
And I walk out before he can answer.
Because if I stay—if I let him look at me like that again—I’m not sure I’ll be able to pretend I’m fine either.