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Gentlemen don’t take cheap shots to check out someone’s ass. They wait until said someone is pinned beneath them, panting, blushing, and writhing before memorizing every inch of their perfect bodies. My cock twitches, and whilst I’m trying to picture my ugly Aunt Susan to get it to stop, Meg stands.

“And you’re observant. Shall we stop stating the obvious and get on with it?” The corner of my mouth almost twitches, and I lose the battle against trying to tame my dick. Her sass always gets me. Lowering my hands to clasp them in front of my groin, I note how the players are watching, whether openly or from the corners of their eyes. Watching and waiting to see how this dynamic is going to work, if it’s going to work. Setting my jaw, I speak loud enough so I can’t be accused of going soft on her.

“As co-captain, you’re supposed to set the standard.” Meg’s eyes lift to mine, and for a single second, the sun catches the warning laced in her expression.

“I was just giving you time to warm up the players you’ve selected.” Sneering, her hand gestures to the mess of bodies before us, and I don’t need to follow the motion to know what she sees. The clusters of men dominating the pitch while the women wait at the edges. I didn’t tell them they couldn’t or shouldn’t join in. I was waiting for one of them to take the initiative.

“Alright everyone, jog it out. Five laps to warm up.” Meg circles her finger overhead, voice loud enough to cut through the idle noise. At first, nobody moves. A scoff slips from Mitchell, a snigger from Samson, and aside from glaring in their direction, I purposefully do nothing.

Meg used to be a formidable captain of her women’s team, and the Dean’s administration offices are lined with trophies to prove it, but that was then. I’ve had a year to whip my male team into shape, getting them into championships that weren’t an option whilst Meg’s team was taking center stage. The men on this field listen to me, they respect me, and that’s something Meg is going to have to earn without me holding her hand.

“Did I stutter?” Meg’s brow lifts, her patience snapping. “Move it!” At my discreet nod, the players burst to life. It grates on me that they waited for my permission to obey her, but baby steps. Before Meg can round on me, making demands and digging her cleats into the turf, I address her first.

“You too, Rookie,” I state, able to finally remove my clasped hands from where they were shielding my hard-on. Thankfully, staring at Samson’s face has dealt with that particular issue. Opening her smart mouth, I quickly silence Meg with my hand. “You’re out of practice, your stamina has been set back months. You’ll need to train just as hard, if not harder than the rest of them.” Her scowl doesn’t lessen as her eyes cut across the stadium.

“I don’t disagree,” she mutters, much to my surprise. Did she just…agree with me? Steadying herself as the team is about to circle past, Meg shoots one last glare over her shoulder. “By the way, Rookie is the same as Faker. Don’t think you can work around my rule that easily.”

She’s gone in the next instant, luckily before she can see the amusement crack beneath my façade. She falls into pace with Claire, her body stiff at first, before gradually finding its rhythm. I watch for longer than I should.

The old Meg would have dominated the field in an instant, every stride being a statement, and every breath becoming a challenge. This Meg, however, has to work harder. Her muscles protest sooner than they should, a fraction of hesitation happening when her feet cross certain parts of the turf, and my hands curl at my sides before I can stop them.

This is where she was taken from. That exact patch of grass which I found bloodied when I arrived for early practice on that cold morning, only to be met with a scene I’ve struggled to comprehend ever since. Streaks of crimson red, the smell of copper, the unknowing dread curdling in my stomach.

I still have nightmares about it sometimes, nights where I’m screaming into the abyss and she’s nowhere to be found. Even now, when she’s alive and furious in front of me, I still can’t handle how close I came to losing her. And Cody still expects me to choose.

My mood quickly sours once again, the tic in my jaw trying to cause injury. Meg has to get used to being back on the pitch if she’s ever going to take back her name, her team, her reputation, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy putting her here. It’s my own selfishness that couldn’t let her walk away, after all.

Once laps finish, Meg positions herself at the front, cheeks flushed and lungs working overtime beneath her stubborn posture. Slipping back into old habits, she addresses the group.

“Okay, now we’re going to run some drills, starting with ground ball gauntlet. I want men lined up on the left, women on the right. Everest and I will take turns running the ball through the middle, and each opposite pair will try to take possession⁠—”

“We know what ground ball gauntlet is,” Marty calls from the rear, boredom dripping from every word. That weaselly fucker is lucky Coach is his uncle, or he wouldn’t even be here, giving attitude to the woman who’s crawled back from hell just to be here. I take a step before I think better of it, but Meg lifts a hand, stopping me without even looking properly in my direction. I still, the leash tightening around my throat. I don’t care how it looks. If she wants to handle it, I’ll let her.

“Do you also know that in a unisex team, there will be an even six-six split between the genders? Most of you are going to spend the next season warming the bench. You may have been selected in try-outs, but you won’t be stepping foot into a match if you don’t perform well in practices. You’re being judged on your skill as much as your willingness to be a team player, so I suggest you all leave your egos in your lockers. Pick an opponent and form two lines. I won’t repeat myself.”

Silence follows, unease rippling through men and women alike who struggle not to fidget beneath Meg’s glare. She has their attention, and finally, without me needing to act as backup, they start to fall into line. Reluctantly, but at least they do it. I was starting to make a shit list in my head for who I’ll be kicking off the team first.

Standing back with my arms crossed, I let Meg take charge first. The first ball rolls down the lane untouched. No one challenges her, despite the sticks held in firm grips and helmets concealing mixed expressions of contempt and curiosity. Undeterred, Meg turns back with a raised brow and runs the line again, then again.

By the third run, the energy starts to shift. Once the women realize she’s giving them equal opportunity to challenge her and the men realize she’s not going to stop until someone does, bodies surge forward. Sticks clash, and shoulders slam. A girl I nearly cut during selection drives through a boy twice as broad and sends the ball skidding sideways. I just about conceal a startled laugh from the sideline.

Meg continues, barking corrections as she moves, voice steady even when exhaustion clings to her. I find myself merely watching. Her old leadership style was built on charisma and validation. This one will be different, earned through grit and pure determination to be the loudest one on the field so no one can ignore her.

When one drill ends with everyone damp from sweat and breathless, Meg calls for the next rotation and carries on. By the end of practice, there are no snide remarks or scoffing in sight. Instead, there’s an equal measure of bitterness on mostly everyone’s face as they head for the locker rooms. I suppose that’s a stepping stone to respect, so I let it slide.

The bleachers creak under my weight as I sit, elbows braced on my thighs. The last thing I feel like right now is an ambush in the showers about Meg’s training tactics. She’s brutal, and that’s exactly what we’re going to need. Also hanging back, Meg stands on the sideline, her head dropping back in the late-afternoon sky. A light breeze catches loose strands of her hair as she rolls her neck, testing the tightness there. I should leave her be, but I don’t, and to my surprise, she comes to sit at my side.

“Well, that was a shit show,” she sighs. I nod once. She’s not wrong. Effort doesn’t magically create teamwork. Whatever small improvement she managed today is only the first inch of a climb that might never see its peak.

“It was only a practice,” I respond, and apparently, that was the wrong answer. Meg straightens, turning to face me properly.

“Then practice not being useless.” For a second, I’m sure I misheard her. My expression actually slips, surprise cutting through the mask I’ve spent years perfecting.

“Excuse me?” I blink through a haze coating my vision. I don’t know whether I’m offended or turned on, but who am I kidding? It’s definitely the latter.

“You heard. You did nothing to help back there. I was floundering for their attention, and you just watched it happen.” My jaw tightens at this. What would she have done differently? I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I tilt my head and realize just how close her huge, blue eyes are.

“I let you take center stage. If I stepped in, you would have accused me of undermining you.” Meg scoffs softly, thoroughly unimpressed.