Chapter 4 Captain Material, huh?

The field feels smaller the second Cole steps fully into view. My lungs refuse to expand properly, like someone wrapped a band around my chest and yanked. He stops beside Hargrove with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a whistle dangling from his neck on a black cord. The wind lifts the edges of his windbreaker, and for one stupid second all I can think is how the very same jacket smelled like him that night.

Hargrove claps once to get our attention back. “Coach Fletcher will take over effective immediately. He’s got years of experience, played college ball, coached at the high school level before moving into administration. You’re in good hands so listen up.”

Cole nods once, scanning the semicircle of us again. His gaze slides past me without stopping, professional and detached. My stomach twists anyway.

“Good afternoon,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the grass. “I’m Coach Fletcher or just Coach. No first names, no nicknames. Until your coach returns, this is my team. That means my rules, my standards and my expectations. We have three weeks until the tournament. I don’t care how talented you think you are individually, talent without discipline is noise. So here’s how it’s going to work.”

He pauses, letting the words settle.

“First: show up on time or don’t show up at all. Second: no phones during practice. If I see one, it’s mine until we’re done. Third: I do not care who you were under the last coach. You earn your place on this team every single practice. Finally: I don’t tolerate drama. Whatever happens off this field stays off this field. If you bring personal bullshit here, you’ll run laps until you forget what personal means. Questions?”

Silence. A couple girls shift their weight. Sarah stands a little straighter with her chin up and back arched provocatively.

“None?” Cole raises an eyebrow. “Good. Stretch for five, then we start with conditioning. Move.”

He turns away to talk quietly with Hargrove, and the circle breaks. I follow the others toward the sideline. My heart still hasn’t settled. It’s hammering so hard I’m sure someone will hear it.

Inside the locker room, girls are crowded around the benches, pulling on shin guards or tying laces with their voices overlapping in that excited post-announcement buzz.

“Did you see his arms?” Mia from defence whispers, fanning herself with her glove. “I mean... come onnn.”

“Right?!" Jenna laughs. “I thought Coach Wells was fit, but this guy looks like he could bench the whole back line.”

“I would break a leg on purpose if that’s what it'd take for him to talk to me,” someone else says. “Just saying...”

I head straight for my locker, pretending my heart is not trying to claw its way out of my chest.

“Hey,” Mia bumps my shoulder lightly. “You alive?” 

“Barely,” I mutter. “Is this a nightmare or did you hear him say captaincy is up for grabs?”

“Oh, I heard it,” she says brightly. “So did Sarah. You can practically smell the ambition.”

“Finally!” Sarah’s voice cuts through as if summoned. She’s leaning against a locker with her arms crossed watching the door like she’s waiting for an entrance cue. “New coach, new energy. Maybe it’s time the captain spot goes to someone who actually earns it.”

I slam my locker shut and turn to face her. “If you’ve got something to say, Sarah, say it to my face.”

The room quiets a fraction and heads turn toward us.

She lifts her hands innocently. “I wasn’t talking about anyone in particular, Bennett. Why? Did I strike a nerve?”

I meet her eyes and force a smile. “You know, I don’t expect you to understand what it takes to be an actually good player. The only part of your body good at running is your mouth.”

A few girls snicker but Sarah’s smile doesn’t falter. “Relax. I’m just saying fresh eyes might see things differently. That’s all.”

“Fresh eyes might also see you talking big and playing small,” I reply. “But sure. Let’s see what happens when the whistle blows.”

She shrugs, pushes off the locker. “Can’t wait.”

The door bangs open. “Two minutes!” someone yells from outside.

We file out in a rush. Cole is standing at midfield holding a whistle in his hand, already marking cones for drills. He doesn’t look at me when I jog right past him.

He blows the whistle once. “Line up. suicides. Four sets. Go.”

We run.

The first set is brutal – we sprint to the first cone, back, second cone, back, all the way to the end line and back. My lungs burn by the third rep, but I push through, finishing ahead of most of the midfielders. Cole watches from the sideline with his arms crossed wearing an unreadable expression.

When we finish the fourth set he nods. “Not bad. But not good enough. Water break, thirty seconds.”

Girls drop to the grass, gulping from their bottles. Sarah jogs over to Cole smiling and holding a water bottle in her hand.

“Coach, can I ask about the formation for the tournament? I’ve been studying some of the opposing teams’ tendencies.”

He glances at her. “We’ll cover formations tomorrow. Focus on conditioning today.”

She doesn’t back off. “I just thought–”

“Think later. Run now.” He turns away, calling out the next drill.

Sarah’s smile tightens, but she jogs back to the group. The other girls aren’t much better. Jenna “accidentally” brushes his arm when she asks about footwork. Mia lingers too long when handing him the ball bag. He answers in short sentences keeping his eyes on the field.

I keep my head down, focusing on the ball at my feet. We move into passing drills, then possession games. Cole walks the lines, correcting our forms.

“Bennett, plant your foot before you strike. You’re leaning back.”

I nod, reset, and strike cleaner. He moves on without comment.

Sarah, on the other hand, keeps finding ways to be near him. Asking about drills, offering input, laughing a little too loud at his dry instructions. He responds the same way every time – with short and professional replies, his eyes already moving to the next player.

We switch to small-sided games. I’m on the blue team while Sarah is on red. The whistle blows and we’re off. She’s aggressive from the first touch, her shoulder-checking harder than necessary.

“Captain material, huh?” she mutters when she steals the ball from me.

I win it back two touches later and send it wide to Jenna. “Keep dreaming.”

The game intensifies. Sarah’s playing dirty now and actively trying to sabotage me. I dodge most of it, but she’s waiting. During a fast break I receive the ball at the top of the box, turn, but she comes in high and her body slams into mine. The momentum carries us both down. My knee scrapes across the turf, and the grass burns my skin.

I hit the ground hard just as the whistle shrills.

“Foul!” someone yells.

Sarah is standing over me with her hands on her hips, wearing an innocent expression. “Oops. Slipped.”

I push up on one elbow, ready to lunge and rip the skin right off her face, when a familiar hand appears in front of my face. I look up.

“Take my hand,” Cole says quietly.

And after three years of not a single word, there stands the man I love with his hand outstretched for me to take.