31. Matthew

Chapter 31

Matthew

I stand with my arms crossed, watching the guys file in one by one. The tension in the air is thick, and I know exactly why—it's not just about lacrosse today. It's about me.

I glance at Coach Woosley, who's beside me, arms folded, his whistle hanging around his neck like a judge's gavel. We both know this isn't going away unless we snuff it out now.

"Alright, bring it in!" Woosley barks.

The guys shuffle closer, some dragging their feet, others muttering under their breath. A few avoid looking in my direction entirely, but I see them. I see the smirks, the whispers. It doesn't bother me—I've heard it all before. What does bother me, though, is that Dylan has to put up with this bullshit, too. And I'll be damned if she has to walk onto this field every day feeling like she's got something to prove.

Woosley blows his whistle once. "Before we get into practice, we've got some things to clear up. Some of you have been running your mouths about things that don't concern you.

"I've heard the comments. I've seen the snickers. And as of today I've seen video. I know some of you think you're clever. But I'm here to remind you—this is my goddamn team. And that means I make the calls. Got it?"

A low murmur can be heard, but Coach isn't finished. "In case any of you have missed the memo, I chose Coach Dawson as my assistant. Not just because he knows the game, but because he's damn good at what he does. If anyone here has a problem with that, you're free to leave."

He glances at me, giving a short nod—my cue.

I step forward, clipboard tucked under my arm, eyes sweeping over the team. "Let's address the obvious." My voice is calm, but loud enough to carry. "Yes, I'm the assistant coach. No, it's not because of some backdoor favor. It's because I know this game and I know how to win."

The guys exchange looks, some skeptical, some neutral. I don't give them a chance to interrupt.

"And yeah," I say, locking eyes with the few who have been the worst offenders, "Dylan and I are together. Our parents are engaged. So if that's been the source of your jokes—there it is. You got the scoop." I raise a brow. "Anything else you want to snicker about?"

The silence is almost deafening. No one speaks, though a couple of guys shift uneasily on their feet. I wait a beat, giving them all a chance to say what's on their minds. Nothing. Cowards.

"Good," I say, satisfied. "Because here's the thing: Dylan's earned her spot on this team. If you can't handle that—you think you're too good to be on the field with her—don't waste our time. Leave now."

More silence. A few guys exchange glances, weighing their options, but no one moves. Exactly what I expected.

"And one more thing," I add, folding my arms across my chest. "If I catch anyone making her—or anyone else on this team—a target? You're benched. And if that doesn't do the trick, you're off the team."

Woosley steps up next to me, nodding firmly. "We're not here for drama. We're here to win. So get your heads on straight—or get the hell out. This is college level fellas, not your ragtag high school teams."

I pull the whistle from around my neck, give it a sharp blow, and watch every head snap toward me. "Line it up!" I bark.

The guys groan but move, dragging their feet into a crooked line. I blow the whistle again—longer this time. "Straighten up, or you're all running extra!"

That gets them moving. Cleats scrape against the grass as they shuffle into place, shoulders bumping, but no one dares mutter a word. Good. They're learning.

I blow the whistle a third time. "We're doing conditioning today. Three miles, then suicides. No shortcuts. Everyone runs until I say stop. Anyone slacking? The whole team pays for it. Got it?"

A few of them mutter, "Yes, Coach," but I need more.

" I said, got it? " I snap.

"Yes, Coach!" they shout back in unison, loud enough to echo across the field.

"Good. On the whistle." I raise it to my lips. "Three... two... one..."

Tweet.

They take off like a herd of buffalo, cleats pounding the field. I fall back, pacing the sidelines with my arms crossed, watching each one closely.

The first mile starts strong—some of the guys showing off, pushing their pace too early. I see it every time. They'll burn out halfway through, and the smart ones—the ones who know how to manage themselves—will catch up.

By the second, the pack starts to splinter. Ford's still hanging toward the front, his jaw tight, legs working hard, but I see the fatigue creeping in. His shoulders roll forward a little more with every step, and his stride shortens, but he keeps going.

Jacob's about a dozen strides behind, steady and consistent. He isn't flashy, but he's got heart. He never lets up—not in practice, not in games, not even when things get ugly. That's why I respect him. He doesn't talk much, but he lets his effort do the talking.

This is where it gets brutal.

Sweat drips from every player, their jerseys dark with moisture. Legs start to buckle, and chests rise and fall like bellows, but no one stops. Not unless they want hell to rain down on all of them.

"Faster!" I shout from the sideline, pacing like a drill sergeant. "You think games are won at half speed? Let's go! Push it!"

Ford digs deep, pumping his arms as he sprints across the field. He's grimacing now, but he doesn't slow. Jacob follows close behind, face tight with focus, eyes locked on the finish line. He's not the fastest, but he's got grit, and that counts for more.

Yeah, he's definitely enjoying this.

By the time Woosley blows his whistle for the last sprint, half the team looks ready to collapse. Some of them are bent over, hands on their knees, gasping like fish out of water. Others are flat on their backs, chests heaving as they try to catch their breath.

I give them a moment to recover, then blow my whistle one last time. "Line it up!"

They groan, dragging themselves into another crooked formation. I take my time walking the line, making eye contact with each player, reading their exhaustion.

Ford leans forward, hands on his thighs, drenched in sweat but still upright. Jacob's breathing hard, but he meets my gaze with a look that says, That all you got?

Woosley steps forward, arms folded. "You've all had your fun running your mouths this week," he says, his voice cutting through the stillness. "But that shit ends now."

I step beside him, my tone sharp. "You will respect your teammates—and your coaches. Hopefully, today is the only lesson or reminder that you'll need."

I let that hang in the air for a moment, scanning their faces to make sure the message sinks in. Most of them nod, still too winded to argue. A few exchange looks but keep their mouths shut. Smart choice.

"You all are too old to be acting like a bunch of high school mean girls," Woosley adds. "This is your only warning. Next time, you'll be sitting on the bench."

Nobody moves.

"That's what I thought," I say, crossing my arms. "Hit the showers. We'll see who shows up to work next practice."

Woosley blows his whistle, and the team staggers toward the locker room, dragging their tired bodies across the field.

I linger for a moment, watching them go, feeling a small spark of satisfaction. It's not just about the drills—it's about setting the tone. They don't have to like me, but they damn will respect me. And Dylan.

I catch Jacob's eye as he walks past, still catching his breath. He flashes me a quick smile, and I return it with a nod.

Yeah, today was a good day.