Page 102 of Play Maker

“You don’t get to do that!” I shout, hands clenched. “You don’t get to explode someone’s life in front of cameras just because you’re hurting!”

He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me, jaw tight.

“You haveanyidea what Kolby’s been through?” I keep going, louder now, closing the space between us. “You think you’re the only one who lost something? You think you’re the only one who got hurt?” I shove him.

Jackson grabs my arm immediately, trying to pull me back. Dad steps between us with the same look he gave me when I flipped off a ref in eighth grade while playing field hockey.

“Lo,” he warns, low and sharp. “Enough. He’s not worth it.”

But Cross doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I’m not scared of him,” I hiss.

“He’s not scared of you, either,” Jackson mutters, grip still firm.

I shrug them both off and jab a finger at Cross’s chest. “You want to know what I see when I look at him?” I say. “I see a man who’s held pain in his soul foryearsand still finds a way to keep going. Still finds a way tolove.Even after everything. Even when people like you try to tear him down.”

His eyes flash. And then … he breaks.

“Heleft me!” Cross roars, finally. Voice cracking, raw and sharp like it’s been stuck in his throat since he was a kid. It probably has. “He fucking left me! I hadno one.Just him. Just Ryan. And one day, he was gone. Just gone. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was some stray he could ditch when the guilt got too heavy.”

The words slice the air between us.

I freeze. Jackson does, too.

And for the first time … Iseehim. Not just the anger. Not just the muscle and attitude. Theboyunderneath. The one Kolby risked his life to protect.

I open my mouth, but a door slams behind us, and I look back.

Kolby.

He steps onto the field, calm but storm-eyed, and walks straight toward us. Doesn’t say a word to me, just catches my hand as he passes, warm and steady, and slows only enough to kiss the back of it.

“I got it,” he says.

I hesitate. “Kolby?—”

“I got it.”

Dad tugs me gently, and I let him.

I follow him to the edge of the practice building, but I don’t go inside. I linger, back against the corner of the brick wall, just close enough to hear.

Kolby stops in front of Cross. Doesn’t cross his arms. Doesn’t puff his chest. Just stands there. Quiet. Still. Present. All Kolby.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to,” he says. “I left because I had to.”

“You could’ve saidsomething,” Cross snaps. “One phone call. One letter. Anything. You vanished.”

“I killed my father.”

Silence. No wind. Just those four words dropped like thunder.

“I killed him,” Kolby repeats. “I shot him. I was a kid, scared just like you. They hauled me out in cuffs and locked me up like I was a grown man.”

Cross blinks. Opens his mouth. Shuts it.

“I knew you were safe,” Kolby says. “They told me to forget. Said I’d only hurt you more if I came back.”

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