Amanda.
It's official. I hate Jayden Reynolds.
And yes, I know "hate" is a strong word, but right now, it feels perfectly accurate.
I could still feel his gaze burning into my back as I stomped off the field, my cleats crunching against the turf. Like he was watching me—not as Amanda, not as Ethan's little sister, but as a player who'd failed to meet his impossible standard.
Whatever.
I shoved through the locker room doors and let the smell of sweat, cheap floral body spray, and damp towels wash over me. The place was alive with chatter, giggles, and the metallic clang of lockers opening and slamming shut.
"Gosh, my body aches," Zoey groaned dramatically, flopping onto the bench like a dying fish as she peeled off her practice jersey.
"Same," someone else muttered from across the room.
I ignored them. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to laugh or complain or do whatever it was everyone else seemed to be doing. I just wanted to shower, dress, and disappear.
Zoey didn't care about my mood, of course. She plopped down next to me with a smirk.
"He may be a hottie coach," she said, waggling her brows, "but when it comes to his work, he's like the devil himself."
I didn't even look up. "Mhm."
"You can't tell me you didn't feel it," Zoey pressed, leaning closer. "That man doesn't coach—he commands."
I rolled my eyes and focused on untying my cleats. "Some of us came here to play soccer, Zoey. Not flirt with the coaching staff."
She snorted. "You make it sound like I'm the only one thinking it."
"Because you're the only one saying it out loud," I shot back.
Zoey grinned, unbothered.
Across the room, Samantha—our left-winger, the unofficial gossip queen—decided to chime in. "I watched some of his old match clips online. Dude was a beast on the field. I wonder why he retired so early. Twenty-four is still prime."
I froze.
I could feel their eyes on me then—Zoey's, Samantha's, probably a few more teammates who were pretending not to listen but absolutely were.
They wanted me to spill.
Because I'd made the mistake of telling them I knew Jayden.
Or maybe… maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe part of me had said it on purpose, like some pathetic attempt at staking a claim.
Which was ridiculous.
And I hated that it was even a thought in my head.
All I really knew was what Ethan had told me: Jayden left pro soccer because he is planning to join the family business. That was it. No details. No explanations. Just enough to keep my curiosity gnawing at me.
And there was no way I was feeding their gossip.
"Ladies, I don't know more than you do," I finally said, yanking off my cleats with more force than necessary.
The room filled with disappointed groans and exaggerated "ohs" as if I'd just ruined their favorite reality show.
"Boring," Zoey sighed.
"Whatever," Samantha said, smirking. "You'll tell us eventually."
I wouldn't.
I finished stripping out of my practice gear, stuffed it into my bag, and made a beeline for the showers. The hot water loosened the tightness in my shoulders, but it didn't wash away the sting of his words. You're not captain if you can't lead.
He knew exactly where to hit.
By the time I was clean, dressed, and back at my locker, most of the girls had left. A few stragglers lingered, still chatting about our new assistant coach like he was some forbidden fantasy.
I tuned them out.
My focus was on tomorrow—our first qualifying match. We had five to win if we wanted a shot at state. And I wasn't just trying to make it to state. I was trying to earn my ticket out of Folkner.
I needed that scholarship.
And no amount of Jayden Reynolds' condescending glares or cutting comments was going to get in my way.
I zipped my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed for the door.
The coaches' offices were at the end of the corridor. My feet quickened instinctively as I passed them. Eyes forward. Don't look.
Don't—
My traitor eyes darted to his door anyway.
Empty.
Good.
Or… disappointing?
Ugh. I didn't even know anymore.
"Night, Coach," I called as I passed Miller's office.
"Get some rest, Carter. Tomorrow's a big day," he said without looking up from whatever paperwork he was buried in.
My stomach growled as I pushed out of the building and into the cool night air. Right. Food. I hadn't eaten since lunch.
I adjusted my bag and trudged toward the parking lot.
That's when I saw him.
Leaning against his black SUV like he didn't have a care in the world—Jayden.
Great.
Just what I needed.
My steps faltered. For a moment, I considered ducking back inside and waiting him out. But then he saw me.
Of course he did.
"Carter," he called, straightening.
I froze.
Run? No. Walk? Too casual. Stare at him? Nope.
"Yeah?" My voice came out sharper than I intended.
He tilted his head, studying me. "You walk home this late?"
I blinked. "Why? You planning to file a report?"
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. "It's not safe. Get in. I'll drive you."
Oh, no. Absolutely not.
"That's… unnecessary," I said quickly.
"Not a question," he replied, opening the passenger door.
My pulse spiked.
And suddenly I hated him even more.
Not because he was being bossy.
But because, deep down, I wanted to say yes.
He stared at me with an intensity that made my skin prickle, like he could will me into his car if he just looked hard enough.
"I'll drive you," he said again, quieter this time, like it wasn't even a question anymore.
I grappled with indecision, my bag strap biting into my shoulder as I shifted my weight.
Part of me wanted to say yes. God, I really wanted to. It would be easy—slide into the passenger seat, pretend we're just two people being civil. Pretend that his presence doesn't pull my focus like gravity.
But if I said yes, it would feel like defeat.
Like surrendering some invisible line of war that he drew the moment he pretended not to know me, the moment he decided I was just another player.
And I couldn't do that.
Besides, I just wanted to go home, eat, and rest. No Jayden drama. No late-night tension that would keep me tossing and turning.
Tomorrow was our first qualifying match. I needed every ounce of focus, every scrap of energy.
If I got in that car, I wouldn't be able to concentrate tonight.
I squared my shoulders. "I'll pass. Thanks, though."
His jaw flexed, but he didn't move. "Amanda—"
"Goodnight, Coach."
I didn't wait for him to argue. I turned on my heel and walked away, my heart pounding like I'd just run a mile.
I didn't look back.
But I could feel his eyes on me the entire way.