42. Matthew

Chapter 42

Matthew

W e win, but barely. One point. That's not us—not Ford, not Dylan, not Jacob. The entire game felt off. Passes weren't as clean, communication was scattered, and every time I looked at Dylan, she seemed somewhere else. Even Ford, who's usually rock solid, was distracted. Something's up, and I'm going to figure out what.

As we start to cool down, Dylan pulls off her helmet, her hair sticking to her face, drenched in sweat. She wipes at her forehead, her eyes scanning the field, but I can see it—the tension in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. She's rattled.

Before I can head over, a player from the other team charges straight at her. "What the fuck? You can't be on the team. This is a men's league." His voice is loud, too loud, and it draws the attention of everyone on the field.

Dylan freezes, her expression locking into that deer-in-the-headlights look. She's been playing as the only girl on a team for a while now, and while she's used to the occasional asshole making comments, this feels different. There's something in the way she tenses up, something in the air between her and this guy. He stops in front of her, chest puffed out, like he's trying to intimidate her.

Before I can step in, Henry shoves the guy back. "Ease up, dude! There's nothing saying she can't play, so deal with it."

"Bullshit!" the guy—Brock, I think his name is—fires back, shoving Henry in return. My blood starts to boil.

"Hey, break it up!" Woosley's there, grabbing Henry and pulling him back. His voice is low and controlled.

I step in too, glaring at Brock. "Johnson, get back to your team. My captain's right—Murphy can play as long as she earned her spot, same as everyone else. She did. The end. Go on back to your side now."

But Brock doesn't back off. His eyes flick over to Dylan, and then to Jacob, his lips curling into a sneer. "Enjoy my sloppy seconds, Stoll. Or is she Henry's? She always did love a captain."

Something snaps inside me. "Hey!" I bark, taking a step forward, my pulse spiking. "Get your ass back to your team, or you're outta here."

Brock throws his hands up mockingly. "Fuck you!" he shouts as he stalks away, walking backward like he's too cocky to turn his back on us. But then, just as he's retreating, he trips, hitting the ground hard.

Avery smirks and skips past him a step or two, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oops. You should watch where you're going," she giggles, flashing a grin before jogging toward us.

She reaches Dylan, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "You okay, babe?"

Dylan's eyes flicker to me for a moment, then back to Avery. She whispers something, too quiet for me to hear, but I can see the exhaustion in her face. "I'm good," she says, but her voice is unconvincing. "Let's just get cleaned up, and we'll all talk at home."

Whatever this is—it's not good. I feel it in my gut.

The walk to the locker room is tense. Jacob and Ford exchange looks, and I know they're thinking the same thing. Something's off with Dylan, and now we've got an opposing player running his mouth, stirring up more shit. And Dylan—she's shutting down. She's not talking, not saying what's going on, and that's not like her. She usually opens up, especially with us.

I hang back as we head to the showers, my mind racing. Ford nudges me, raising an eyebrow. "What do you think that was about?"

I shake my head. "I don't know, man. But something's been off with her the whole game. You saw it."

Jacob joins us, pulling off his gear with a frown. "Yeah, I noticed too. She's usually the one keeping us grounded out there, but today…" He trails off, sighing. "Something's bothering her."

Ford's face hardens. "Think it has to do with Brock?"

"I'd bet on it," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Did you see how she froze up when he got in her face? I haven't seen her like that before."

We finish up quickly, the locker room emptying out as the rest of the team heads out. Dylan is the last to leave the showers, her expression guarded as she dries her hair. She catches my eye for a second, but looks away just as fast.

I can't take it anymore. "Dylan."

She pauses, turning toward me, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. "Yeah?"

I walk over, keeping my voice low, trying to soften the edge of frustration I feel building. "What's going on?"

Her eyes flick between me, Ford, and Jacob, and for a moment, I see the conflict in them. She's thinking about it, weighing whether she's ready to talk. But then she shakes her head. "It's nothing. Just a rough game."

"Bullshit," Ford snaps, stepping closer, his voice low and frustrated. "You've been off the whole game, Dylan. We're not blind."

Jacob's tone is softer, more careful. "Something's going on. We know it. You can tell us, Pickle."

Dylan bites her lip, her face tight with emotion. She looks away for a second, like she's trying to figure out what to say, what to share. The silence between us is suffocating, the weight of whatever she's hiding pressing down on all of us.

"I said I'm fine," she whispers, but the crack in her voice betrays her.

My heart clenches, my eyes locked on her, searching for any sign she's about to open up, to let us in. But instead, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. "This isn't the time or place. Not here."

Ford steps closer, his frustration giving way to concern. "Kitty, come on. We're not trying to push, but we need to know what's going on. You're scaring us."

She flinches, her eyes darting between us, and for a second, I think she's going to break down right here, in front of the whole team. But then she pulls back, stiffening like she's pulling herself together through sheer force of will. She takes a long breath, looking down at the ground.

"We'll talk at home," she says quietly, her voice shaking just a little. "Not here. Please."

I exchange a look with Ford and Jacob, both of them wearing the same worried expression I feel twisting in my gut. We can't push her right now, not like this. But damn it, whatever this is, it's big, and it's tearing her apart.

Jacob nods, his voice gentle as he squeezes her arm. "Okay. At home then."

Dylan gives him a small, grateful smile before stepping away from us. I watch her walk toward the hall, her shoulders tense, like the weight of the world is pressing down on her. And maybe it is. But whatever it is, we'll face it together.

Ford sighs, running a hand through his hair as he watches her go. "I don't like this," he mutters.

"No shit," I say, my chest tightening with the frustration of it all. "Something's seriously wrong. Did you see her face?"

Jacob crosses his arms, his brow furrowed. "Yeah, but pushing her isn't going to help. We need to give her time. She'll tell us when she's ready."

Ford huffs, clearly not satisfied. "She's a mess. We can't just sit back and do nothing."

"We're not doing nothing," Jacob says, his voice steady but firm. "We're giving her space to talk when she's ready. We can't force it, Ford."

I stare at the spot where Dylan disappeared, my hands clenching at my sides. Whatever's going on, whatever's eating at her, it's more than just a bad day. I can feel it. And the fact that she won't let us in—it kills me. She's shutting us out when all we want to do is help her.

"We'll get to the bottom of it," I say, my voice low but determined. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together."

Ford's jaw tightens, but he nods. Jacob gives me a small, understanding smile. "Yeah," he says. "Together."