CHAPTER 1
DYLAN
THE PAST
Igrip the bench so hard my fingers ache, nails pressing half-moons into my palms. My cleats tap against the ground, restless, itching to move, to do something. I can see the game unraveling in front of me, and it’s killing me.
We’re losing ground. Fast.
I see the gaps in our defense before they even open, the missed tackles, the plays I could have executed better. I know what needs to be done. But instead of being out there, making a difference, I’m stuck here, watching it all fall apart.
Kat shifts beside me, arms crossed so tight it looks like she’s holding herself back from throwing something. Her voice is sharp, bitter. “This is bullshit, Dyl.”
I don’t answer, because what’s the point? We both know why I’m on the bench.
It’s not because I’m not good enough.
It’s not because I haven’t earned it.
It’s because I’m not one of his favorites.
Our coach barely glances my way. He sticks with the players he’s comfortable with, the ones who’ve been here longer, the ones who get the benefit of the doubt no matter how many times they fuck up.
I train harder. I play sharper. I have the stats to prove it. But none of that matters when the person making the calls refuses to see me.
Another turnover. Another missed tackle. I squeeze my fists tighter. If I were out there, I’d have made that stop. I’d have been in position. I could have changed the game.
Instead, I sit.
Fuming.
Waiting.
Hoping for something that might never come.
The second half is slipping away when it happens.
A brutal hit—mistimed, reckless. One of our starters goes down, clutching her knee, her face twisted in agony. The medic runs onto the field, signaling for a sub.
My breath catches.
This is it.
I know I should be next in line. But the coach hesitates.
He scans the bench, looking for a way around putting me in. Like maybe, if he stares long enough, another option will magically appear.
Kat tenses beside me. “Are you serious?” she mutters under her breath.
Then, finally—reluctantly—his gaze lands on me.
“Porter. Get in.”
I’m on my feet before he finishes speaking, sprinting onto the field, muscles already firing, body snapping into motion.
I don’t just play—I take over.
I find the space, carve through defenders, fire off a clean, sharp pass that sets up a try. A minute later, I land a tackle so hard the opposing player stumbles on the replay.