Page 80 of The Game We Played

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each route feels heavier than the last. My legs burn. My lungs tighten. Sweat pours into my eyes, blurring my vision.

“Hydrate!” someone shouts from the sideline.

I don’t look. I don’t break focus.

Snap.

Run.

Cut.

Catch.

Reset.

The world narrows to the field. To the rhythm. To the grind.

This is what my family will never understand. This isn’t a game. This is work. This is pain. This is everything.

“Again!”

I push off the line and my foot slips half an inch on the turf. Not enough to fall – but enough to throw me off balance.

“Focus!” Nolan snaps as he resets behind the center.

“I’m focused,” I grit out.

But the heat is getting to me. I can feel it now. The way my vision tunnels at the edges. The way my heartbeat pounds a little too hard, a little too fast.

Across the field, Gage stumbles. At first, it looks as if he missed a step. Then he goes down. Hard. The whistle blasts.

“Take a knee!” Coach shouts.

Everything stops. Trainers sprint onto the field. Gage’s helmet is off, his face pale, chest heaving.

“Heat exhaustion,” someone mutters.

I swallow and drag a hand over my face. That could be me. Thatwillbe me if I don’t get my shit together.

“Water. Now,” Coach orders.

I jog toward the sideline, slower than I want to admit.

My gaze catches on Alaia. She’s already moving – faster than some of the staff – grabbing bottles, shoving one into my hands before I even ask.

“Drink,” she says, voice firm. There’s no teasing or joking now.

I blink at her. She’s serious. Concern is etched across her face.

“Hey,” I manage. “I’m fine.”

“Drink, charmer.”