The loss was brutal. A last-minute goal, sloppy defending, and tensions were boiling over in the Richmond locker room.

You threw your boots down harder than you meant to. The loud smack echoed off the lockers.

“Maybe if certain people passed the fucking ball instead of showboating, we wouldn’t be walking out with our heads down,” you snapped, staring straight at Jamie.

He looked up, jaw tightening. “You talk like you could’ve done any better,” he said. “You missed a sitter in the first half.”

“Because you sent a ball behind me,” you shot back, stepping forward. “Not all of us are out here trying to play hero every fucking match.”

Jamie stood too, chest puffed slightly. “Right, because you’ve been flawless lately?”

Roy’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Enough!”

You both froze. Roy had that look—the one that could silence a crowd and kill a man.

“I don’t give a shit if you two wanna tear each other apart,” he growled. “But do it after we’ve won a match. Not when we’ve just bottled one.”

You muttered, “Maybe if someone had actually coached us instead of yelling from the sideline…”

The room went still.

Roy turned to you slowly. “The fuck did you just say?”

Jamie’s eyes widened slightly. Even he knew you’d gone too far.

You took a shaky breath, not backing down. “Nothing.”

Roy stared for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he walked past both of you, shaking his head.

“Sort yourselves out,” he muttered. “Because I’m not wasting my time on players who don’t give a shit about each other.”

The door slammed behind him.

Jamie sat back down, running a hand through his hair. You stood alone in the middle of the locker room, chest still heaving.