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I knew juggling coaching the Blaze and continuing my duties as the Wyvern’s team captain would be a challenge, but today I’m finding out how true that is.

I want to be upset about how tired I am, how my muscles are fatigued, and how I’ve already spent so much of my energy on a game that isn’t mine to win, but I can’t—and it’s infuriating.

I haven’t been able to enjoy watching football in years, but Elise was on fire today.

Every pass, every move she made—it was like watching a goddamn highlight reel.

With the way she teases me, trying to get a rise out of me, I shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I did. The truth is that with every day I watch these young women train, it works to rekindle some of my love for the sport I once thought I’d spend the rest of my life playing.

The whistle blows, and the game kicks off.

I move into position, lining up for the throw-in.

I’m meant to be quick, but my body’s not responding like it usually does.

I bend to hook the ball, but there’s a moment’s hesitation, enough for the throw to go off-target, just enough to piss me off.

My team keeps moving, but I feel like I’m stuck in place, sluggish.

One of the forwards gives me a look, waiting for a signal, but I don’t have it in me to give him anything right now.

I bark out the call, possibly sounding too harsh, but I can’t help it.

I’m annoyed at myself, at this feeling of being off, like I’m not where I need to be.

The tension between us is thin, and I hate that I’ve let it creep in.

I push it down, trying to focus. But with every missed call and half-hearted push, it’s like I'm losing more ground. I was supposed to be the one running the show here, the one making the game go my way. Instead, I’m second-guessing myself, thinking too much.

I can’t even get my timing right on the lineout; every throw feels like it’s just a step behind.

And then, just as quickly as it came, the frustration hits a new level. Elise’s perfect pass flashes in my mind again, how it made me feel alive in a way I haven’t in ages. But I’m not supposed to care about that right now. This is my game, my pitch. I can’t afford to be distracted.

I dig in, trying to push myself back into it, but I’m still fighting the fatigue, fighting the memories of that damn football match, and it’s all bleeding into the way I’m playing. My legs are heavy. I’m not where I need to be. And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all slipping away.