I knew the second I stepped onto the field that she’d be watching.
Not because I had proof. Not because anyone told me. But because I felt it—like a pulse under my skin, like her eyes were stitched into my movements. Even from 900 miles away, Riley always knew when I was pushing too hard.
And today? I was definitely pushing too hard.
They brought me in at the second half. The noise was deafening. Stadium lights blinding. The moment my cleats hit the pitch, the crowd exploded like I was some kind of hero returning from the dead.
Funny.
I’d never felt more like a ghost.
I adjusted my shin guards, rolled my shoulders once, and tried not to look toward the skybox. Not that she’d be there. Not that she’d ever want to be.
But still. I couldn’t help it.
“Ready?” Raphina muttered beside me, already bouncing in place.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure it was true.
The ref blew the whistle. I stepped forward.
Flashback: Two Days Before the Match
I sat in the clinic with my new PT. She was good: sharp, enthusiastic, loyal to the system. But not Riley.
“Pain level?” She asked.
“Zero,” I lied.
She nodded, made a note, and kept going.
Truth was, my leg still ached like hell when I turned too fast. But I’d trained myself to absorb the pain. Not wince. Not show it. Riley had taught me how to listen to my body. How to respect it.
But I wasn’t listening now.
Now I just wanted to move. Score. Prove something I didn’t even believe anymore.
I passed. I pivoted. I sprinted for an opening, my knee holding just enough. I could feel it in the way my foot struck the ground—off by half a second. Unbalanced. Compensating.
“Lucas! On your left!” someone yelled.
I cut right instead.
Jersey 19 came at me too fast. I turned my body for impact—
And that was it.
My cleat caught the grass. My weight shifted wrong. The torque snapped through my knee like fire up a wire.
I went down hard.
For a moment, I didn’t hear anything. No crowd. No commentary. Just the ringing in my ears and the numbness crawling down my leg.
I heard my name being shouted. A medic sprinting across the grass. My teammate’s hand on my shoulder.
I knew before they reached me. I knew before they said a word.
I’d torn something. Maybe everything.
Again.
The room was cold. Sterile. And way too quiet.
I sat on the bench, shirt half off, ice pack duct-taped around my knee. The medic had already told me it was bad. MRI tomorrow. But I didn’t need the scan. I could feel it in my bones.
Raphina slipped in beside me, unscrewing a bottle of water.
“Want to talk?” he asked.
I stared at the floor. “I don’t know what to say.”
“She’s watching,” he added after a pause. “You know that, right?”
I swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah.”
He leaned back, tossing the bottle onto the bench between us. “Then maybe don’t lie to her next time.”