Now, I knew better. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like survival.
Chapter 28
Beckett
The field was too quiet for a weekday. You could feel it—tension hanging in the air like humidity before a storm. Guys were half-going through drills, half-watching the gate, pretending they weren’t waiting for whatever was about to blow up.
I’d been running through the motions harder than usual, cleats snapping against the grass, lungs burning. Guilt, anger, missing her—none of it had anywhere else to go, so I left it here, pounding it into drills until my body hurt more than my head.
Coach Lawson’s whistle shrieked again, but even he could tell nobody was focused.
The second Kyle Reynolds stepped through the gate, the sound of drills and shouting died like someone had cut the power. Every ball stopped rolling. Every player froze mid-motion. Even the wind seemed to stall.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist, squinting across the field. He wasn’t dressed for practice—black jeans, boots, jacket still half unzipped—but his expression said he didn’t come here to talk.
He walked straight across the grass, ignoring Lawson’s warning shout.
Perfect.
Just what I needed.
“You couldn’t stay away, could you?” he called, loud enough for the whole team to hear.
My pulse spiked, but I didn’t move. “You should leave.”
He kept coming. “You think you can steal my girl and walk onto my field like nothing happened?”
Behind me, Adam muttered under his breath, “Oh, hell,” while Derek whispered something that sounded like don’t do it, man. Nobody stepped in. They just watched.
I could feel every pair of eyes on us—my teammates, my coach, the media staff pretending to check their phones.
I took a slow breath, jaw tight. “She wasn’t yours to steal, Reynolds. You left her standing alone—over and over.”
That got a few raised eyebrows. Even Lawson’s whistle faltered halfway to his lips.
Kyle laughed, but it wasn’t real—just a sharp, ugly sound that cut through the tension. “You think you’re some kind of hero? Please. You’re a headline with legs.”
That stung more than it should’ve, probably because he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d spent years trying to prove I was more than a temper or a record of penalties. Then she’d looked at me like I already was.
I stepped forward, close enough that I could see the sweat beading along his hairline. “At least I show up,” I said, voice low. “Something you never learned how to do.”
His expression cracked—just a flicker of something between guilt and rage—and that was all it took.
He lunged first, shoving me hard in the chest. My foot dug into the grass to keep balance, my hands curling into fists before instinct screamed don’t. Lawson was already shouting, sprinting across the field.
“Reynolds! Mason! Enough!”
I didn’t swing back. Didn’t have to. The damage was already done.
Kyle’s chest heaved, anger rolling off him like heat. “You think she’s gonna thank you for this? For ruining her reputation?”
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for,” I said quietly. “And she doesn’t need your permission to move on.”
Adam finally broke the silence with a low whistle. “Well. That’s going to make Good Morning, MLS.”
I ran a hand over my face, every nerve still buzzing. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Add it to the list.”
Lawson glared at me from the sideline, but even he didn’t bother with a lecture this time.
