Page 131 of Winning Brynn

He won’t, though.

He hasn’t passed the ball to me once during the game so far, and we’ve been playing for seventy-six minutes.

Each time, he sees that I’m clear, and his foot twitches as if to pass. But then contempt twists in his eyes as he reminds himself of my betrayal, and he thunders on without me.

The ball is intercepted by the other team and lost once more.

“Come on, man!” I yell at him, rain beginning to fall from the sky in sheets, slapping at my face in angry, bitter strikes.

He pretends not to hear me. The other team scores a goal. And for the first time in weeks, I can say with quite some confidence that if we lose today, it won’t be completely my fault.

Not that it would be worth pointing that out to anyone, much less my captain and former-best friend who hates me with every cell in his body right now. But it’s a somewhat comforting thought, nonetheless.

The remaining minutes tick by like molasses.

I fight harder to find prime positions, to open opportunities and create clear chances of scoring, but my efforts are fruitless.

The crowd grows restless. It’s as if the tension in the team is contagious, creeping up and infecting every fan who has paid good money to watch us fail today.

God bless the season ticket holders. They haven’t gotten their money’s worth from us in over three games now. It’ll be a miracle if we have any fans left after the way we’ve performed this season. Frankly, I’m not above reimbursing them myself, since I’m the main reason for our losses.

And that’s not even mentioning the money gambled on the Strikers to win the league this year, which we don’t have a hope in hell of doing unless we win every single game left of the season. The fans are frustrated, and I can understand why.

The final whistle blows. The weight of the loss hangs heavy in the air like exhaust fumes, choking our lungs as we walk heavy-headed off the field to the chorus of angry jeers from the fans.

I don’t look at Alex, but I can feel his glare burning through the back of my skull the entire way to the locker room. He blames me for the loss, which isn’t entirely unfair, considering. But I don’t have it in me to turn around and meet his eyes, not when the tension between us feels tight enough to snap at any moment.

“What the fuck was that shit?” Coach Carter bellows, slamming the door of the locker room with a bang that reverberates through my bones.

We all sit on the benches with our heads bowed, staring blankly at the floor. A couple of accusatory glances swing Alex’s and my way, but no one bothers to say anything.

“Wolfe,” Coach barks. “What the actual, godforsaken fuck were you doing out there? You’re supposed to lead the team by example, yet you failed to pass the ball to an open player no less than three goddamn times.”

Through my periphery, I watch Alex shift in his seat. “Coach, I—”

“If you’re about to bullshit some excuse, then save your damn breath because I don’t want to hear it,” Coach cuts him off with a lethal glare.

Across from me, Roman releases a low whistle.

“The team deserves an apology,” Coach snaps. “We were expecting a tough game, but they handed us our asses and spanked us for good fucking measure. You should be embarrassed. God knows I am. And you”—his eyes swing to me—“this is your responsibility to sort out. You knew what you were doing when you hooked up with his sister. You made your bed, now lie in it and make it better.”

My mouth gapes. “How do you—”

“I know everything,” he tuts. “Don’t insult me by asking stupid questions.”

Roman smirks, and my middle finger twitches.

Directing his attention to the rest of the group, Coach continues, “You guys better work out what it means to be a team again, or best believe I’ll be trading your sorry asses at the next available opportunity.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides out the door, letting it clang shut behind him.

For a long moment, the room buzzes with uncomfortable silence, no one willing to be the first to break it. Roman’s gaze finds mine, and he jerks his head in Alex’s direction, probing me to speak.

“Alex, I—”

“Don’t.” His interruption is clipped and sharp with resentment.

“We need to talk about it.”

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