Pierce loved his team. He really did. He believed in them—saw flashes of talent they didn’t always recognize in themselves, trusted that when it actually mattered, when the whistle blew and the lights came on, they could pull through.

But some days—most days—he wanted to wring their necks.

It was expected, he supposed. A pack of teenage boys with more pride than patience, more interest in landing a joke than landing a drill. Still, after years of coaching, it never stopped getting under his skin. Especially when that carelessness bled into game performance. That was the part that stuck in his chest, sharp and familiar. Was he too invested? Probably. He didn’t feel like unpacking how much of that came from a career that never quite made it past almost.

The field buzzed with the start of a new school year—fresh cleats tearing at the grass, the metallic rattle of the goalposts in the breeze, too many new faces crowding the line. Pierce already knew most of them wouldn’t last the week. He could feel his blood pressure climb with every interruption, every side comment, jaw tightening as he resisted the urge to start cutting names on the spot.

Instead, he blew the whistle and sent them running.

Laps. Simple. Telling.

Pierce paced the sideline, eyes sharp as he tracked their form—who kept a steady stride, who burned hot and fast, who was already flagging. Disappointment settled heavy when he saw shoulders sag and hands drop to knees far too early. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then lifted his head and shouted, his voice roughened from years of being thrown full-force across open fields.

“Dear god, guys—it’s five laps. Five. What, you planning to lay down mid-game the second you lose steam?”

He snapped his fingers, whistle swinging against his chest.

“Move.”