Chapter cDM
“Something looked off about that play,” he said as he draped a sling over my neck. He wore a name tag on a Strikers-maroon collared shirt. It read: Scott Whitney. "Almost like Lindsom didn't even try to block."
“Rough game,” I replied, taking a halting breath and praying the agony would subside.
“Nothing to worry about.”
I flexed my left hand, the muscle stiff from the weeks spent in a cast. It ached to its core…still.
Bastards. And Coach let them get away with it.
Mud splish-splashed as I ran. The cry of a sandhill crane rattled overhead. I stared at the ground as it disappeared, inch by inch, beneath my cleats.
I may have been filling the gap on the team between Drakes moving on and Seager coming up, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be her consolation prize or rebound guy. I wanted her to choose me.
I still do.