Chapter 17 — The Red Card Gift
The locker room was loud in the way it always got after a decent practice—music thumping, cleats clacking, guys tossing tape and shin guards into bags like it was an Olympic event.
Max sat on the bench with his hoodie still on, legs spread, elbows on his knees. He looked like he was present and not present at the same time—body here, mind still on the field.
Sabrina stayed in the doorway long enough to be seen and not long enough to be in it. Support staff posture. Clipboard tucked to her side. Neutral face.
She was about to turn and leave when a voice called out, too cheerful.
“Yo, Delgado.”
One of the midfielders—Ethan Shaw, the kind of guy who survived every awkward moment with a grin—walked over holding something bright red.
He flicked it between two fingers like a magician.
A novelty red card.
Thick plastic. Oversized. Comic-book bold.
Someone had drawn a smiley face on it with a marker.
Ethan held it out like a gift. “For your collection, man. Limited edition.”
The guys nearby burst out laughing.
A couple of them clapped like it was a joke that deserved an encore.
Max’s mouth pulled into a smile.
It looked right.
It landed wrong.
His eyes didn’t change. His shoulders didn’t loosen.
He took the card, glanced at it once, and gave a small nod like he understood how to play along.
“Ha,” he said, flat.
Then his face went blank.
The laughter rolled on without him.
Max turned the card over in his hands like it was heavier than plastic should be. Like it was proof.
Sabrina’s stomach tightened.
This was what people missed when they wanted a simple storyline: he could perform “okay” all day and still be nowhere close to okay.
Ethan wandered off, still grinning, satisfied with his own comedy.
Max stared at the red card for a long beat, then shoved it into his locker like it was something sharp.
Sabrina stepped forward.
Not into the room. Not into the center.
Just close enough for her voice to land.
“Delgado,” she said, calm.
Max didn’t look at her. “What.”
“That didn’t sit right,” Sabrina said.
Max’s jaw flexed. “It was a joke.”
Sabrina kept her tone even. “It landed like a warning.”
Max’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp and annoyed. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
Sabrina didn’t blink. She didn’t soften it to make it easier for him.
“Then don’t bleed in front of me and call it fine.”
The noise around them faded a little—not because the room got quieter, but because Max stopped moving.
His expression went hard. Defensive.
Then it cracked at the edge, just slightly, like her words hit a place he’d been guarding.
He looked away first, toward his locker, toward anything that wasn’t her face.
“Go do your notes,” he muttered.
Sabrina took the line for what it was: a push and a plea wrapped together.
“I am,” she said. “This is part of it.”
Max didn’t answer.
But his hands had stopped shaking.
For now.