Practice starts at ten. I walk into the locker room expecting the usual—tension, wariness, the careful dance of a team that’s been walking on eggshells around their captain for months.
That’s not what I find.
Shep notices first. His eyes track me from the door to my locker, narrowing slightly as he catalogues whatever he’s seeing.
“Captain.” His tone is suspicious. “You look different.”
“Do I?”
“Less like you’re about to combust.” He exchanges a look with Heath. “It’s disconcerting.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re more than fine.” He stands and circles me. “You’re... relaxed. Looser. You look like a person who’s had a decent night’s sleep, which is terrifying because I didn’t know you were capable of that.”
I slept like the dead. For the first time in months, I didn’t wake up at 3 AM running scenarios. Didn’t lie there cataloging everything I’m failing at.
I just slept. Because I was too wrung out and satisfied to do anything else.
Then this morning I got my dick sucked so perfectly it rearranged my soul. But that’s the last thing I’ll ever admit to this dipshit.
“Maybe I just learned some new coping mechanisms.”
Head.
Mind blowing and all consuming.
The room goes quiet. I realize too late what I’ve implied, and then I realize I don’t actually care.
“New coping mechanisms.” Shep’s grin spreads across his face. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“We’re not calling it anything.” I start pulling out my gear. “We’re focusing on practice.”
“Sure, sure. Focus. Very important.” He doesn’t stop grinning. “But just so we’re all clear—when you say ‘coping mechanisms,’ you’re definitely talking about—”
“Sawyer.”
“Got it. Not talking about it.” He mimes zipping his lips. “But for the record, whatever happened, keep doing it. This is the most human you’ve looked in months.”
I want to snap back, to reassert the control I’ve always maintained in this space. But the words that come out aren’t sharp.
“Get your gear on. We’re running the power play sequence first.”
It’s almost gentle. By my standards, anyway.
Shep stares at me. “Did you just... not yell?”
“I’m capable of not yelling.”
“Since when?”
“Since now, apparently.” I pull my pads out of my bag. “You going to question it, or are you going to get ready for practice?”
He gets ready for practice. But I can feel him watching me the whole time, cataloging the differences, probably already composing his next group text about Captain Soft Boy’s latest evolution.
Let him.
Practice goes well. Better than well, actually—the team responds to whatever energy I’m putting out, matching it with a fluidity I haven’t seen in weeks. The power play sequence clicks.Passing drills run clean. Even the scrimmage has a flow to it that’s been missing all season.
