The rain was coming down in sheets, the field slick and muddy, but you hadn’t stopped. You’d been putting in more hours than anyone, running drills until your legs ached, staying late, pushing yourself past the limit. But Roy? He kept pushing harder. Always harder. And today, it felt like he was deliberately trying to break you.

You missed a pass, a simple one, and Roy was on you like a hawk.

“You need to focus!” he barked, stepping into your space, eyes blazing. “This is the basics. You should be better than this.”

The words stung more than they should have. You were exhausted, drenched, frustrated—fed up.

“I am better than this,” you shot back, louder than you intended, voice cutting through the storm. “You ever gonna give me credit for the work I’ve been putting in, Roy? Or are you just gonna keep pretending like I’m not doing everything you ask?”

The words came out sharp, raw, and unfiltered. The whole team had stopped, watching in stunned silence. Even the rain seemed to pause for a breath.

Beard, standing off to the side, muttered low enough for only a few people to hear, “Storm-out in three… two…”

Ted, ever the optimist, shook his head with a grin. “Nah, they’ll hug it out.”

You didn’t wait for the hug. You didn’t even wait for Roy’s response. The frustration had boiled over, and you couldn’t stay there for another second. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed off the field, your boots splashing through the mud, heart pounding in your chest.

Roy didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to stop you. Didn’t call after you.

He just watched, his expression unreadable.