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CHAPTER 1

DYLAN

THE PAST

I grip 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.

The shift is immediate. The momentum flips. The team rallies.

By the final whistle, we’ve fought our way back.

I’m breathless, sweat dripping down my temple, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I did exactly what I knew I could do.

I look for him. The coach.

I expect… something. A nod. A finally. An acknowledgment that I should have been in the game from the start.

Instead, he just shrugs. “Right place, right time.”

Like it was luck.

Like it wasn’t inevitable.

The words hit harder than any tackle.

No credit. No recognition. No apology for leaving me on the bench when I should have been leading from the field.

And in that moment, I know—some people will never see me for what I am. No matter how hard I fight.

The past lingers in the back of my mind as I think about the new training facility.

Everything there is pristine, from what I’ve read. High-tech recovery rooms, a gym packed with state-of-the-art equipment, a training field so perfect it looks like something out of a sports documentary.

The coaches were so nice over Zoom, their smiles warm, their words full of promise.

It feels different.

It should be different.

But I can’t shake the fear.

What if this is just another version of the same story? What if the head coach already has his favorites? What if I get there, work my ass off, proving myself over and over again, only to be overlooked when it matters most?

I’ll make sure to watch the assistant coaches during drills, searching their faces for the same indifference I’ve seen before. Every correction, every comment, every glance will probably feel like a test.

Will they pay attention? Will they actually see me?

Or am I already being slotted into the background?

That’s if they accept me at all.

I’ll need to push harder. Run faster. Play sharper.

And still, paranoia gnaws at me. Is this real? Or am I making myself crazy?

During a virtual happy hour to meet some of the current team, one of the veterans—Ana—grins. “You’ll be great. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

I force a smile.

But she’s wrong.

Because I do .

I always will.

As I disembark the plane, my breath steady, my muscles thrumming, I make myself a silent promise— I will not let them bench me again.