The whistle blew sharp across the pitch, and you doubled over, sweat dripping off your face, lungs on fire.

“Again!” Roy barked from the sideline. “And this time, get it right!”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset, sprint, pass, shoot—all under his watchful, relentless eye. He hadn’t let up all week. Every drill, every match, every word—it felt like you couldn’t breathe without him finding fault in it.

When the session finally ended, the others peeled off toward the locker room. You stayed behind. So did he.

“You done?” he asked, tone gruff.

You turned, fists clenched at your sides. “Why me, huh? You push everyone—but you grind me down.”

Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Because you need it.”

You stepped forward, voice rising. “No. Because you think I’m weak. Admit it.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flashing across his face. Then, quieter than you expected, he said, “No.”

You blinked.

“I think you’re better than this,” he said, arms crossed, voice low but steady. “I think you’ve got more in you than half this team. But I can’t want it more than you do.”

The silence hit harder than any drill.

You felt your breath shake—not from exhaustion this time, but something deeper. The kind of ache that comes from finally understanding something you’d been too angry to see.

He hadn’t been trying to break you.

He’d been trying to wake you up.

And now, standing there, your chest still heaving and your pride bruised, all you could manage was a nod.