27. Dylan

Chapter 27

Dylan

T he field stretches wide under the afternoon autumn sun. I inhale deeply, letting the crisp air fill my lungs, but it does nothing to calm the jitters.

First day of practice. College lacrosse. I've dreamed of this moment forever, but somehow, standing here now feels different.

Yes, I'm once again the only girl on the team, but this time, I'm not alone.

My fingers tighten on the strap of my gear bag slung over my shoulder. Ford stands to my right, tossing a ball between his hands like it's no big deal. Jacob's on my left, his expression somewhere between amused and indifferent. I admire and envy his ability to care just enough without caring too much.

The other guys on the team? They're staring at me like I've sprouted three heads.

One guy—the team captain, I think—narrows his eyes and mutters something to the dude next to him. Both of them glance my way, and then the captain scoffs under his breath. I know exactly what he's thinking. I've seen that look a thousand times. What's a girl doing here?

There's no "girls' team" option here. I belong on this field, just as much as any of them.

But getting them to accept that? Yeah. That's the real challenge.

Coach Woosley clears his throat, and we all snap to attention. He's an older guy with the grizzled demeanor of someone who's spent decades yelling at athletes and isn't about to stop now. His clipboard clatters against his palm as he scans the lineup of players in front of him.

"All right, listen up!" he barks, voice booming. "I've got a couple of new faces to introduce to you today. Meet your new teammates: Ricky Lettion, Sam Facto, Jacob Stoll, Ford Nickels... and Dylan Murphy."

He pauses—for dramatic effect, I'm guessing—and lets the tension settle over the group like a heavy fog. A ripple of confusion spreads through the players, brows furrowing, a few side-eyes darting in my direction. One guy in the back mutters, "Dylan's a... female?" like he's still trying to make sense of it.

"Yes," Coach says, snapping his head toward the player who spoke up. "Dylan Murphy is a she . And let me tell you something—she was the most sought-after recruit this season. We got lucky. She's fast, aggressive, and one of the best damn players I've ever scouted. So get used to it."

I lift my chin, locking my expression into something cool and collected. I can feel their judgment pressing down on me, like invisible weights stacked on my shoulders. I've dealt with this before. I'll deal with it again. But it's different this time—this time, I need them to take me seriously.

"You don't have to like it," Coach continues, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you will respect it. Anyone got a problem with that?"

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. No one's brave—or stupid—enough to speak up. Not on day one.

"That's what I thought." Coach shifts his gaze across the group, daring anyone to step out of line. "All right. Let's get to work. And in case anyone here still thinks this is some kind of joke... meet my assistant coach."

A door to the field house creaks open, and there he is.

Matthew steps onto the field, clipboard in hand, wearing a black whistle around his neck. His brown hair is a little tousled from the wind, and the corner of his mouth curves up in a knowing smirk when our eyes meet.

"Some of you know me already," he says smoothly. "For those who don't, I'm Matthew, and I'll be working with Coach this season. You can call me Coach Dawson."

The others don't notice, but I can feel the flicker of heat between us from twenty feet away. Matthew's gaze lingers on me just a second too long before he redirects his focus back to the group. It's subtle—barely noticeable—but I catch it. And I know some of the others catch it, too.

We break off into drills after Woosley blows his whistle. I throw myself into the practice with everything I've got—sprinting, cutting, passing, working my stick like my life depends on it. Ford and Jacob are right there with me, and we move in sync, reading each other's movements like we've been playing together for years.

But the other guys? They're not so quick to warm up.

I catch snippets of conversation between them as we run through passing drills.

"Can't believe she's really on the team..."

"What if she gets hurt?"

"Shouldn't she be playing field hockey or something?"

I grit my teeth and push harder, my cleats digging into the turf. They'll see soon enough. I'm not here to play nice. I'm here to win.

We run a scrimmage toward the end of practice, and I take every opportunity to prove myself. I intercept passes, make quick cuts, and land a perfect shot into the top corner of the net, sending the goalie scrambling. My chest burns from the exertion, but it's worth it when I see some of the guys exchange surprised glances.

"Damn," one of them mutters. "She's actually good."

Actually? I roll my eyes but keep my focus on the game. Better than good. I've worked my ass off to be here.

When practice finally wraps up, sweat drips down the back of my neck, and my muscles ache in the best way. I pull my helmet off, shaking out my ponytail, and catch sight of Matthew standing near the sidelines, arms crossed, watching me with that same look he always gets when I do something he likes.

As the players start to wander off, a couple of them shoot curious glances in Matthew's direction. I overhear one whisper to another.

"Think she's sleeping with the assistant coach?"

"Nah... but they're definitely close."

My stomach tightens. Damn it. This is exactly what I was worried about. If people start talking, it could be bad—for both of us.

Matthew catches the look on my face as I watch the team head to the locker room. He walks over, his expression calm, like he's already anticipated my concerns. I know Coach Woosley knows and everything is good on his end. But the other players still have to listen to Matthew. They have to want to play with me.

"Don't worry about them," he says, voice low so only I can hear.

"But if they—"

"They won't," he interrupts gently. "Let them talk. They'll get bored eventually."

I sigh, biting my bottom lip. He makes it sound so easy, like none of this bothers him. But I know better. I don't want to be the reason he's not taken seriously or respected as an assistant coach.

"Come on," he murmurs, nudging my arm. "I'll drive you home."

I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance at Ford and Jacob. "Hey, I'm catching a ride with Matthew," I tell them casually.

Jacob's brow furrows slightly. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I say with a small shrug. "I just want to touch base with Matthew since some of our new teammates have noticed... you know, the way Matthew and I are with each other."

Jacob nods knowingly. "I feel that."

"Cool. See you in a little bit." Ford smirks, like he knows exactly what's going on but doesn't feel the need to comment.

I lean in to kiss each of them goodbye—Ford's kiss is quick, Jacob's lingering just a bit longer—before I turn toward Matthew, who's waiting patiently. Without a word, Matthew takes my bag off my shoulder and slings it over his own. His small gestures always mean more than I let on.

We walk hand-in-hand to his car, the sun dipping lower on the horizon.

The drive back is quiet. I glance over at him as we cruise through the few streets, trying to gauge his mood. As usual, Matthew looks calm and relaxed, like the weight of the world could roll right off his shoulders.

"You're not worried about them talking, are you?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He gives me a quick glance before focusing back on the road. "Nope. They'll lose interest soon enough."

His confidence should rub off on me, but I can't help feeling like there's a target on my back. Still, if he's not concerned, maybe I shouldn't be either.

When we pull up to the house, he puts the car in park, steps out, and opens the door for me. He carries my bag again, slinging it effortlessly over one shoulder as we walk toward the front steps together.

This time, the quiet between us isn't awkward—it's comfortable, like the weight of the day is finally starting to fade. I kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk, watching it roll off the curb.

"Thanks for the ride," I say softly, glancing up at him.

He smiles that easy, familiar smile of his. "Anytime."

We reach the steps, and he leans casually against the railing, studying me. "You were incredible today," he murmurs.

I roll my eyes, even though I can't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "You have to say that. You want in my pants."

He chuckles, and for a moment, everything feels light again—like nothing else matters but us, standing here together.

"See you tomorrow?" I ask, shifting on my feet.

"Wouldn't miss it," he says with a wink.

"Still moving in this weekend?" I smirk, excitement blooming that I'm so close to having all three of my guys under the same roof.

"Almost all packed. Luckily, I haven't been in my place long, so it's been easy."

"I can't wait." I smile.

"I'm calling dibs my first night sleeping here." He licks his lips, his pupils widening with heat.

Just like that, the knot in my chest loosens, the tension I've been holding on to slipping away.

I watch him walk back to his car, hands in his pockets, whistling a soft tune under his breath. And even though I know not everyone on the team is sold on me yet, I'm not worried.