The field still smelled like turf and iron under the floodlights, the last echoes of practice fading into scattered laughter and the squeak of cleats. He tugged his helmet off, running a gloved hand through damp brunette hair as sweat trickled down his temple. His chest still rose and fell with the aftershock of sprints, but when he glanced up, he caught sight of her walking his way.

The sight hit harder than the drills had. Seven months should’ve been enough time to get used to her face in passing, to get used to her not being his anymore. But she still carried herself the same, arms folded, eyes sharp, always looking at him like she expected more. She had, once.

Her words spilled fast, sharp as ever, about the project he’d let slide again. He let them roll off, not because they didn’t sting, but because her voice had a way of pulling the corners of his mouth into a half-smile. Same old her, always keeping score, always calling him out.

“I know, I know,” he said, lazy, like the excuse could cover the ache in his chest. “Practice got in the way. I’ll do it before it’s due, promise.”

The same line he’d tossed out days ago. The same one she didn’t believe.

She looked at him with that mix of disbelief and frustration—an expression he used to soften with a kiss, an arm around her waist, his forehead pressed against her stomach until her frown cracked. But that wasn’t his lane anymore. Not officially. Not since she left.

He watched her start to pivot the conversation, and the word “date” slid in like a knife between his ribs. Date.

With someone else. On a school night. She was telling him like it was nothing, like she wasn’t stomping across his chest with cleats sharper than his own.

He didn’t let the jealousy twist into something ugly. That wasn’t him. He just bit down on his lip, slow, thoughtful, like he always did when he didn’t like the taste of what he was hearing.

“Not sure why you’re telling me like I’m gonna wish for you to have a good time or something,” he muttered, tossing his rag over his shoulder, straightening up to his full height. His tone was calm, even easy, but the edge was there if she wanted to hear it.

He grabbed his water bottle, drained the last of it, and looked her in the eye. “It’s a school night anyway. Stay back and help me with my part. We’ll FaceTime later. Knock it out together.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea either. Just him laying it out, the way he always had—like the space between them wasn’t real, like she wasn’t allowed to drift further than his arm’s reach.

Because the truth was simple: if she wasn’t with him, he wasn’t gonna wish her well.

Not now. Not ever.