GAME DAY I

GAME DAY I
Adam's Pov

It's almost time for the game.

I can feel it breathing down my neck, cold tendrils feathering the hair at the nape of my neck. I feel like I'm slowly downloading into my body, because as the seconds tick past, it becomes even more real, dire. I'm already in my uniform, helmet and all.

Suddenly my phone rings.

My head turns. It's inside my locker, tossed on top of the clothes I changed out off and muffled by the metal door and the roar of the room around me but I still hear my ringtone loud and clear.

It’s probably another call to wish me luck, another voice telling me I’ve got this, another inadvertent reminder that more than just the entire school will be watching. The thought both excites and exhausts me, the latter in the lead.

The call is a little surprising at this time, though. They slowed down about twenty minutes ago, so I'm a little curious who this straggler is. Because for all they know, we're running out into the field right now but they still decided to see if they could catch me.

But I don't pick it up. I don't need the distraction from whoever it is. I hear it stop ringing, and it doesn't start up again.

Emerson didn't call.

And I didn't expect it. I hoped, but I didn't expect it. But oh, how I'd hoped.

I focus on the rhythm of my breathing. The tension in the room hums like static below my skin, and the faint scent of sweat already hangs in the air. There’s a distant thump of someone tossing a ball into the air, and I can hear a muffled prayer off to my left side.

I’ve been stretching on one of the benches, rolling my shoulders, rotating my wrists and my ankles. My body feels half-electric, half-leaden. Adrenaline wants to kick in, but nerves hold it back. I've never been more anxious about anything else in my entire life, not even when Emerson and I first fucked—

Stop. Not now. Definitely not now.

Because in a few minutes, we’ll head out— me and ten others. I know Coach will be watching, and if I don't do well he'd have to take me off the game. In fact I'd want him to take me off the game, for the good of the team. It would kill me but I'd understand.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, palms rubbing against each other like I can spark a fire of confidence into existence. “You’ve trained for this,” I whisper harshly, annoyed at the lock I feel over myself. “You can't let your own mind stop you. You just can't, it's not a fucking option.”

Mid pep talk to myself, Coach walks in. He doesn’t need to shout for silence, the noise dies instantly. We all focus on him, hooked. He's like a lighthouse in these situations, a beacon when you feel you're lost at sea before a big game.

He surveys us for a heartbeat, his gaze sharp but not unkind. During these moments, he lets his care for us shine through, and his pride. “I don't have a lot to say to you boys,” he starts slowly, “Really, all I have to say is this.”

He makes a point to stop here and stare around the room before he continues, “You’ve worked for this,” he says, his voice rough and certain. “Every bruise, every late night, every early morning, every fucking drop of sweat.”

Nervous, anxious nods follow his words. “You’ve ready,” he says, nodding. His gaze locks on me for a moment too long as he says, “I believe in you. I believe in you all. So go out there and make it count!”

His last words come out as a roar, and the room erupts. It's fucking electric. Fists pump, voices rise in whoops, cleats stomp the floor like thunder. My pulse races to match the rhythm and I jolt up from the chair, my feet joining the chorus.

And then we’re moving— filing out, the cold air rushing to meet us.

The stadium lights are already blazing, white and merciless, stark against the darkness of the evening. The noise of the crowd rolls over me almost like a living thing with callous hands; cheers, chants, the metallic crash of drums somewhere up in the stands.

I know Emerson is not the one playing, yet I can't stop the picture of him doing so from engulfing my mind. Is he here? Did he still come anyway?

I pick up the echo of my name once or twice, and it forces me back here, right now. It feels strange, surreal, hearing it out loud like that, and I realise it's been a while.

The field stretches ahead. It's wide, impossibly green, the lines crisp and perfect under the floodlights. I take a deep breath, as we take our starting positions. The smell of grass quickly becomes all I know and shots of adrenaline trickle into my veins.

When the whistle blows, everything sharpens.

The first few minutes are a blur of motion and noise. I’m running, pivoting but calculating. I never know how to explain those moments, where the ball moves like it’s alive, darting between players, demanding attention.

I can feel its pull, the thrum in my veins and I answer, chasing after it. But underneath it all, a whisper persists.

Be careful, be safe.

I fucking hate it.

By the end of the first fifteen minutes, I’m doing okay. I’ve made a few solid passes, intercepted one cleanly, drawn a small ripple of cheers from the stands. But I can feel it— I’m holding back. There’s still a chuck of fear lodged in me, a voice warning me to protect myself.

I jog off with the team, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my neck. Coach claps my shoulder, his expression unreadable. “You’re doing good,” he says. “Keep your head clear.”

I nod, but inside,
I know I'm not doing great. And that needs to fucking change.