Adrian
I arrive at the practice field thirty minutes early.
The grass is still wet with dew, the air cool and sharp.
I drop my helmet near the sideline and start stretching, working through the familiar routine on autopilot while my brain replays this morning on an endless loop.
Connor’s face when he came. The sounds he made.
The way he looked at me after, dazed and vulnerable, like I’d cracked something open inside him he didn’t know was there.
I crossed a line. That much is obvious. I let my control slip, said things I shouldn’t have said, pushed him somewhere he might not have wanted to go.
The fact that he seemed into it at the time doesn’t change the reality that I took advantage of the situation.
He was half-awake, probably still half-drunk, and I talked him through jerking off like I had any right to do that.
The smart move is distance. Give him space to process without me hovering around making it weird.
I move through my stretches with more focus than necessary, trying to burn off the restless energy. Hamstrings, hip flexors, shoulders. The sun climbs higher, warming the air, and I’m just finishing up when I hear someone approaching across the grass.
I glance up.
Connor’s walking toward the field, helmet hooked under one arm. He looks rough around the edges. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and his skin has that pale quality that comes from not enough sleep or too much alcohol or both. But he’s moving with his usual easy confidence.
I straighten, bracing myself for weird tension or some acknowledgment of what happened a few hours ago.
Connor drops his helmet in the grass beside mine. “Morning.”
His tone is completely normal, as if we’re just two guys showing up for practice.
“Morning,” I say back.
He sits down on the grass and starts tightening the laces on his cleats, and I watch him, waiting for something. A sign that he’s thinking about this morning. That it affected him at all.
Nothing. He just finishes with his cleats, stands up, and starts stretching. Easy and relaxed, no tension in his shoulders or his jaw.
I don’t know what to do with that. I spent the last hour convinced I’d made things irreparably weird between us, and he’s acting like nothing happened.
Maybe it was just a release for him, a way to deal with morning wood, and now it’s done and forgotten.
The thought should be a relief. Instead, it sits heavy in my chest.
Brooks and McKenna arrive a few minutes later, followed by Wilson and Davies. Wilson calls us over.
“Same as yesterday,” he says. “Knox, Vega, one-on-ones. Let’s see if you can maintain that intensity.”
Connor grins at me, that cocky flash of teeth. “Ready to get beat again, Vega?”
I let it go and move toward the line.
Wilson sets up the drill, marking off the same twenty yards as yesterday. Davies takes his position with the football. Connor lines up across from me, settling into his stance.
I keep my eyes on his hips.
“Slant,” Wilson calls.
Davies raises the ball. Connor explodes off the line.
I press him at the release, hands coming up to disrupt his timing. He counters, shoving through my contact, and breaks inside. The ball comes fast. He catches it clean.
“Good,” Wilson says. “Reset.”
We jog back to the line. Connor glances at me, and I can feel him angling for a reaction. A comment, maybe. Some acknowledgment of the rep.
I don’t give him one. Just settle back into my stance.
We run it again. Out route this time. I stay patient on the release, tracking his hips, and when he breaks outside, I’m right there with him. The throw is high, and Connor has to adjust, reaching up to pull it down.
“Better coverage,” Wilson says. “Knox, cleaner break next time.”
Connor nods, jogging back. He’s watching me now, a small crease between his eyebrows like he’s trying to figure something out.
We keep going. Route after route, Wilson calling them out in quick succession. I keep my focus locked on the work. Technique, footwork, timing. No trash talk. No jokes. No teasing.
Just football.
Connor tries to pull me back into our usual dynamic. Small comments between reps, little jabs designed to get a reaction.
“Come on, Vega, at least pretend you’re trying.”
“That was a gift. I’m giving you gifts now.”
“You look so serious. Someone die?”
I ignore most of them. When I do respond, it’s with one-word answers or technical observations. Nothing personal. Nothing that invites banter.
After about the tenth attempt, Connor finally stops trying. His face closes off, and he pulls back into himself. The jokes disappear. The grin fades. He just lines up and runs the routes, quiet and focused.
With the back-and-forth gone, we start actually working together. I start noticing things I hadn’t paid attention to before. The way he uses his hands to win the release. The subtle head fake at the top of his comeback routes, selling vertical right before he breaks back.
Between reps, I mention it. “You’re already winning the release with your hands. Get them inside my frame a beat sooner, and I won’t be able to recover.”
The words are out before I think about them. I just told a rival how to beat my own coverage. Santos would lose his mind if he heard it. I could play it off as a joke, but I don’t.
Connor glances over, surprised. “Thanks.”
A few routes later, he returns the favor. “You’re opening your hips too early on deep routes. It’s telegraphing where you think I’m going.”
He’s right. I’ve been doing that for years, and no one’s ever called me on it. He just gave away a tell he could’ve used on me all season.
“Noted,” I say, and I mean it.
The next rep, I focus on keeping my hips square longer. Connor runs a deep post, and I stay with him stride for stride. The throw is underthrown, and I’m in position to make a play on the ball.
“Quick study,” Connor says as we jog back.
Wilson’s watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps calling routes.
We fall into a rhythm. Productive and efficient. I point out small adjustments to his releases. He notices details in my footwork. The more reps we run, the sharper we both look.
Brooks and McKenna are standing near the sideline, and I catch Brooks shaking his head.
“This is boring as hell,” Brooks calls out. “Where’s the drama? Where’s the rivalry?”
“They’re being professional,” McKenna says, but he sounds disappointed too.
Wilson ignores them. “Good work. Keep going.”
We run another sequence. Ten routes, back to back, and by the end my legs are burning and my lungs are screaming. But every route is crisp. Every rep has a purpose.
Connor’s breathing hard when we finally stop, hands on his knees. His face is flushed, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks up at me, his expression tight, caught between frustration and a question he won’t ask.
“Water break,” Wilson calls.
We head toward the sideline where our bottles are sitting in the grass. I grab mine and drain half of it in one go. Connor does the same, then stands there staring out at the field.
Brooks walks over, grinning. “You two are like a divorced couple at their kid’s soccer game. Very civil. Very awkward.”
“We’re working,” I say flatly.
“Yeah, but where’s the fun? Yesterday you were at each other’s throats. Today you’re like robots.”
Connor takes another drink and looks away.
McKenna joins us, crossing his arms. “I’m with Brooks. The hostility was more entertaining.”
“They’re improving each other,” Wilson says, walking up behind us. “That’s the point. You two should take notes.”
Brooks and McKenna exchange a look but don’t argue.
Wilson claps his hands. “Alright, let’s run through the route tree one more time. Full speed.”
We head back out. The sun’s higher now, the heat starting to press down. My shirt clings to my back, soaked through with sweat. Connor’s the same, his face red and glistening.
We run the routes. All of them. Slants, outs, posts, corners, comebacks, digs. By the time we finish, my quads are shaking and my chest is heaving.
“Good work today,” Wilson says. “Same time tomorrow.”
Connor nods, grabbing his helmet and gloves from where he left them near the sideline. I do the same, and we start walking back toward the building.
Brooks and McKenna are ahead of us, already arguing about something. Davies is gathering footballs, loading them into a mesh bag.
Connor and I walk in silence. It feels strange after yesterday, when we couldn’t go five minutes without talking shit to each other.
We reach the equipment area near the entrance to the building. There’s a stack of clean towels by the door, and we each grab one.
Connor drapes his over one shoulder, then turns to look at me. “Can I ask you something?”
I glance up. “Sure.”
“What’s with the cold shoulder?”
The question catches me off guard. I thought I was being subtle. Apparently not subtle enough.
“What do you mean?” I ask, stalling.
“You know what I mean.” Connor’s watching me with those sharp eyes, the ones that see more than I want them to. “I’ve been needling you all day and you gave me nothing. No comebacks, no teasing. What gives?”
I meet his gaze. “I was trying to avoid making you uncomfortable.”
Connor blinks. “What?”
“This morning.” I keep my voice low, even though Brooks and McKenna are far enough away they can’t hear. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have said the things I said or pushed you the way I did. I thought giving you space was the right move.”
Connor just stares at me. His mouth opens, then closes. He looks genuinely thrown, like this is the last thing he expected me to say.
“You thought you made me uncomfortable,” he repeats slowly.
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head, something like frustration crossing his face. “You didn’t. That’s not what’s been bugging me all day.” He opens his mouth like there’s more, then rubs the back of his neck. “Forget it.”
He scoops up his helmet and turns to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He walks away before I can respond, disappearing through the door into the building.
I stand there holding my towel, trying to make the pieces line up. He told me it wasn’t the morning, then left before he’d say what it was. But the only thing that’s been different today is me, going quiet and keeping my distance.
It takes me a second to catch up. He’s disappointed that I pulled away.