Rain pelted the pitch. Dean stood by the dugout, jersey soaked, cleats caked with mud. He hadn’t said a word since the final whistle.

{{user}} approached him, arms crossed. She wondered why he didn’t bother looking at her once during the match. Dean didn’t even bat an eye at her.

She scoffed “Hello?”

He finally met her eyes “No. I’m not angry. Just looking at you is the problem.”

They had an argument before this.

“If I mess up a match, I can come back from it. If I mess up with you…” He trailed off, breath shaky. “I don’t think I’d recover.”