Chapter 5 Dismissed

His hand closes around mine and pulls. The lift is effortless, like I weigh nothing, and for the space of one heartbeat I’m standing close enough to smell the faint trace of his soap mixed with the warm grass scent of the field. My scraped knee protests the sudden movement as pain flashes through my body, but I lock my knees and don’t let the wince show.

Cole doesn’t release me immediately. His fingers stay wrapped around mine, thumb resting against the pulse point at my wrist. I feel the steady thump of my own heart speeding up under his touch and I wonder if he feels it too. Then he lets go and steps back half a pace.

“Time out,” he calls across the pitch. “Everyone hydrate. Five minutes.”

Murmurs ripple through the group. Girls jog toward the coolers, stealing glances over their shoulders. Sarah stays where she is with her arms folded, eyes flicking between us. Cole ignores her completely. He nods toward the equipment shed behind the bleachers.

“Trainer’s kit’s in there. Come on.”

I could refuse. I should tell him I’ve got it handled and limp to the clinic myself. But the blood is trickling steadily down my shin now, and my brain has never been quite good at functioning when he’s near. So I follow, matching his stride even though every step is painful.

The shed door creaks when he opens it. He flips on the single bulb overhead, sets the first-aid kit on the metal bench, and gestures for me to sit.

I ease down, stretching my injured leg out in front of me. Cole kneels without a word, popping the kit open. He lines some antiseptic wipes, gauze and tapes up like he’s done this a hundred times.

“This’ll sting,” he says, tearing open a wipe.

“I can take it.”

He presses the wipe to the raw skin. The alcohol burns instantly, and I suck in a breath through my teeth but keep still. His free hand rests lightly on my calf to steady my leg, his fingers warm through my sock. The contact is clinical. It should be clinical. But my body doesn’t remember clinical. It remembers the way those same fingers once mapped every inch of me like they were learning a language only we spoke.

He works in silence for a moment, cleaning the dirt from the edges of the scrape. I watch the top of his head and concentrate on the way his hair falls forward when he concentrates. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it anymore.

“You could’ve let Jenna handle this,” I say.

“You’re bleeding on my field. I handle it.”

“Right. Very professional.”

He glances up then – just a flicker of his eyes meeting mine before dropping back to my knee. “That’s the job.”

“Is it?” I tilt my head. “Or is it easier to play coach so you don’t have to look at me?”

His jaw flexes. He reaches for a fresh wipe and doesn’t answer.

“You ran away from me for three years only to end up coaching my team” I say. “Very professional.”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

He smooths the first piece of tape over the gauze. His knuckles brush the sensitive skin just above my knee as he wraps the next strip around. The touch is light, barely even there, but it drags a shiver up my spine anyway, making my breath catch before I can stop it.

He freezes for half a second. “Sorry. Too tight?”

“No.” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “Just… unexpected.”

His fingers pause against the inside of my thigh, right where the tape ends. The position is innocent enough – he’s securing the wrap – but the heat of his hand radiates through the thin fabric of my shorts, waking every nerve that’s spent three years pretending to sleep. I feel the shiver again, deeper this time, pooling low in my belly. My thighs tense involuntarily, pressing together just enough to trap his hand for a heartbeat.

He exhales through his nose. “Riley.”

“Don’t.” I swallow.

“You shouldn’t look at your coach that way.”

“What way?”

He finally meets my eyes. Really meets them. The shed light catches the flecks of gold in his irises. For one long second the coach disappears and it’s just him... the man who kissed me like the world was ending, who held me after like he never wanted to let go.

Then he blinks, and the mask is back. He finishes the wrap with quick, efficient movements, smoothing the last piece of tape flat against my skin.

“There. Keep it clean. Be sure to change the dressing tonight.”

I flex my knee experimentally. “Thanks.”

He stands, putting distance between us in one motion. “Back to practice. You’re not sitting out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He holds the door open. I brush past him on my way out, close enough that my shoulder grazes his chest. I feel the quick intake of his breath, hear it catch. Neither of us comments.

Outside the girls have regrouped. Jenna jogs over, eyeing my knee. “You good?”

“Fine. Let’s finish this.”

Cole blows the whistle. “Blue versus red. Possession. Two-touch. Move.”

I jog to my side, shaking out my legs. The wrap feels solid. Good. Because I’m not giving Sarah, or anyonex any reason to question my spot.

The drill starts fast. I demand the ball immediately, shield it from Mia’s press, spin away, and fire a crisp pass to Jenna. She returns it; I one-touch it wide, then cut inside for the shot. The ball rockets past the keeper. Goal.

Girls cheer. I reset without celebration, already moving to the next play. Sarah tries to body me off the ball on the restart. I drop my shoulder, hold position, win it clean, and send another perfect through ball. Assist.

Again and again I move. My knee throbs with every plant, but I push through it, channelling the ache into focus. When Sarah comes in late on a tackle, I read it early, sidestep, and leave her grabbing air. The girls whoop.

By the time Cole calls the drill I’m drenched and my chest is heaving, but I’ve made my point. That captain position is mine for a reason.

We gather at midfield. Cole stands in the centre holding the clipboard in his hand with a calm expression.

“Good work today. Conditioning was solid. Possession showed improvement. But we need more than improvement. We need leaders who set the standard every single practice, every single game.”

He looks around the circle, meeting eyes one by one.

“Captaincy isn’t a birthright. It’s earned every season. Fresh start means fresh evaluation. So there will be a change.”

My chest goes tight as I hear the words. I know what’s coming, but I still hope I’m wrong.

“Sarah is your new captain.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the group. Sarah lifts her chin with a wide smile playing at her lips.

“Becky will be assistant captain.”

Becky blinks, startled, then nods quickly. “Thank you, Coach.”

The words land like stones in still water. No one speaks for a long second.

Cole’s gaze finds mine last and hold it, steady and unapologetic.

“That’s all for today. Head to the showers. See you tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Girls start to move, grabbing bags and murmuring. Sarah walks past me, close enough that her elbow brushes my arm.

“Guess the fresh eyes saw what they needed to see, afterall, she says under her breath.

I don’t answer. I just watch Cole turn away, gathering cones with his back to the team.

The field suddenly feels too big, too empty.

And the wrap on my knee, the one he put there with his own hands, feels like the only thing still holding me together.