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“Be grateful I’m not sending you onto the field so your ‘scratch’ can get a deep tissue infection that costs you an arm.”

“This is from work.” I jump to my feet, drawing up to my full height to look down on him, still feeling small. “I don’t have the luxury of sitting home, taking milk baths or whatever the fuck it is Aidan gets up to.”

“Aidan?He has nothing to do with this.” Coach shakes his head. “No. Even now you’re not getting it. This isn’t a game of excuses or a sport where individuals excel. You need to show you’re a team player, and that you’re serious about the game. Hiding injuries isn’t the way.”

“Then why didn’t you fucking tell me earlier?”

“Don’t swear at me. Go shower, then get your wound checked and be grateful I’m not benching you for what remains of the season. You’ll have another shot to impress the agent and selectors next week…” He holds up a warning finger. “Butonlyif you keep that temper under control and get a medical certificate clearing you for play.”

“And does everyone have to do that?”

“Everyone isn’t sitting here with blood streaming down their arm. But yes, King. You’re all held to the same standards. Now go shower and get that arm seen to in the sick bay, then bring the treatment plan back to me.”

I haul arse away from the benches before my temper gets me into more trouble.

In the sick bay, the school nurse is thorough, disinfecting and cleansing the wound, then pinching the edges together and applying three layers of Dermabond, securing butterfly plasters once it’s dried as added protection.

She talks me through a treatment plan, and I scarcely hear a word beyond keeping it clean and dry, my head still caught in the argument with Coach. When she sends a link to the summary, I forward it to his email.

There’s no reason to stay in the sick bay, but I feign dizziness and ask to rest until I’m recovered.

“Should I call someone for you?” When I decline, she says, “You’re welcome to stay here until the final bell.”

Coach sends a reply, telling me we’ll talk again on Monday. I don’t think he’ll cut me from the team but, given our heated exchange, my captaincy is on thin ice, and I don’t try to kid myself. The loss would be far less about enjoying the mana of the position and far more about keeping it free of Ezra and Aidan’s clutches.

The volume outside increases as the game finishes and the crowds disperse. Twenty minutes after the final whistle, I leave the sick bay, nodding to the nurse, and cross to the changing rooms to grab my bag, using the rear door so I don’t have to walk past coach’s office.

When I push inside, the lights are off. After school hours, they don’t automatically turn on, and the only illumination is from the frosted shower windows, dim at the best of times. I pause in the doorway to let my eyes adjust and hear a loud grunt.

Softly letting the door close, I pad across the room, ignoring the lockers. The noise comes from the shower room, smacking lips followed by a low groan. “Fuck, yeah. Swallow me all the way.”

Not a voice I recognise, but that won’t stop me teasing them, or the entire team once I share the images. Whoever’s in here deserves to get a ribbing for using the changing room when there’s a perfectly acceptable—and lockable—equipment shed two doors along the hall.

Shielding my phone screen, I click into the camera app, setting the video to record in dim light, then creep closer. Another groan sounds, the timbre low and rough.

My senses start tingling.

I stay in the shadows and carefully extend the phone until an image appears on screen.

Even on his knees, mouth fully occupied, I recognise Aidan. The man shoving his cock deep into his throat is the selector.

Thefucking selector.I can’t believe my luck.

Someone hollers outside, the sound muffled, but clear enough for Aidan pull away, saliva dangling like strands of a dew-dusted cobweb, tilting his head to track the noise. When it doesn’t recur, he gets back to work, and I’ve got enough.

I grab my bag and pad out of the room on tiptoe, getting a few metres clear before I check the footage and send it to the cloud. Once I get the saved confirmation, I tuck my phone away, more energised than if I’d won a victory during the game.

In minutes, I’ve gone to thinking my potential career was in tatters to having ammunition to get into the try-outs for any club I want.

Blackmail is very much a last resort but fuck it. Just because I have the career-ending recording doesn’t mean I need to use it.

I’m grinning as I leave the gym.

“Kincaid?” Francesca stands nearby; hands twisting in front of her. She checks over her shoulder before she takes a step closer. “When you didn’t come back on the field, I asked Jared, and he—” She pauses, sniffing, then clears her throat. “He said you were bleeding really badly, and I just wanted to check you were okay.”

Her eyes dance towards my face, then flit away, snagging on the bandage.

“Oh, your arm!” She rushes towards me. “Is that from me? God, I’m sorry. I never wanted… You said it was an important match.”