"Okay, you guys can rest first."
Coach Owens's voice cut through the frozen air.
Bodies lay scattered across the pitch, players sprawled on their backs like soldiers after battle. Their lungs burned. Their legs twitched with aftershocks of pain.
For thirty minutes, no one spoke. The only sound was heavy breathing—raw, broken gasps scraping against the winter wind.
The turf beneath them was cold and damp, soaking through jerseys.
Steam rose from their bodies in the January chill, each exhale puffing out like smoke from broken engines.
No one dared complain—not when Owens was still watching.
Julian sat up at last. His chest rose and fell like a furnace, heat steaming off his body in the cold. One by one, the others pushed themselves upright too.
Coach Owens walked toward them, boots crunching on frost. His shadow loomed long under the pale afternoon sun.
"You guys good?"
"Yes, Coach," came the chorus—thin, fragile voices, barely holding together.
