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After what feels like an eternity of drills, I’m grateful for the break as we head to the locker room. The banter of my teammates echoes off the walls, a soundtrack to the highlight reel of mistakes that keeps playing in my mind.
That’s when I hear Cruz, his voice a little too loud, a little too proud. He’s recounting some date he had after the game last night, the details crass and unfiltered. The guys around him are eating it up, laughter bouncing around the room.
I try to tune it out. It’s just Cruz being Cruz. He’s always been the type of guy to fill his nights—and his bed—with random coeds and then brag about them the next day. Except all I can think about is Lila telling me about their unsatisfactory experience together.
Had he talked about her the same way afterward? Bragged about their nights when I was standing right fucking there, none the wiser?
A surge of something dark and ugly wells up inside me—jealousy, maybe, or possessiveness. It’s irrational. Lila’s not mine to feel possessive over. She hasn’t been mine for years now. In fact, she never truly was.
I clench my fists, anger coiling in my stomach. It’s not fair to her, the way Cruz talks about women, the way he’s probably talked about her. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than guys like him.
Guys like me, I guess.
“Something on your mind, Galloway?” Cruz asks, eyeing me with a challenge in his gaze, my angry stare betraying my thoughts.
I should let it go, walk away. But I don’t. Instead, I stride over to him, my voice low and dangerous. “Ever thought of showing a little respect?”
He stands up, his smile more of a sneer. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s about decency,” I snap. “How you talk about the women you’ve been with? If they could hear all the shit you spew, I’m sure they’d never give you the time of day. I know Lila sure as hell wouldn’t.”
The mention of her name grabs the attention of the entire room. Cruz’s expression changes. “The hell are you talking about?”
“Lila Tate.” I choke her name out through a hard swallow.
His brow cocks, and I can perfectly envision the tiny gears in his brain ticking away. “Dark hair? Big tits? Those cherry-red lips and that wicked fucking tongue, right?”
“Shut the fuck up, Cruz,” I say, the words like acid on my tongue.
He holds his hands up, taking a step back. “Hey, man, I had no idea you two were?—”
“We’re not,” I interrupt, the truth heavier than I expected. “Just ... watch your mouth.”
It’s too late, though. I see the way the guys are looking at me, the whispers starting up. I’ve made a scene over nothing, over a jealousy that has no right to exist.
But Cruz has to push it, has to puff out his chest. “If you’re not with her, then what’s the issue? She’s fair game, no? And now that I think about it, I didn’t really get a chance to loosen her up properly before. I should text her. You know, I’d really love to see that lipstick of hers smeared around my?—”
And, yeah, that’s the last straw. I don’t even think as my fist connects with his jaw, the impact jarring my arm all the way to the shoulder. It’s a sickening, satisfying crunch that rings out in my ears.
The ensuing fight is messy, all swinging limbs and grunts, until Coach and a couple of the guys pull us apart.
Martinez’s face is red with anger, his disappointment a physical thing that makes me want to shrink into myself. “My office. Now,” he barks at me and then to Cruz, “You, ice that jaw and get yourself home.”
Cruz just stands there, smirking, as if he’s won some sort of prize. His taunting hangs in the air, toxic and vile, and every part of me wants to throw another punch. But Coach’s grip is iron on my shoulder, and I know I’ve already crossed a line.
As I sit on the bench outside of his office, the cold from the metal seeps through my shorts, a chill that matches the ice in my veins. I’ve never lost control like that, never let my emotions dictate my actions on the field or in the locker room.
And yet, here I am, a mess of anger and guilt.
After following Cruz out, Coach finally catches up with me, his face stern. I stand up, my knees weak, and follow him into the office. His disappointment is a tangible force in the room. The pressure of it weighs down on me, heavier than any defender I’ve faced on the field.
“You’re better than this, Callum,” he starts, and every word is like another physical blow. “You’re a leader on this team. What happened out there?”
I sit, the leather of the chair sticking to my skin. “I lost my head,” I admit, because there’s no reasonable excuse that can cover my actions. “It won’t happen again.”
He leans back, studying me. “This isn’t just about today, is it? There’s something else going on.”
I want to deny it, to put on the façade of the unshakable team player, but Martinez has always been more than a coach. He’s a mentor, almost a second father. He deserves the truth.
