the final whistle pierced the night air, and the crowd exploded into cheers. the scoreboard glowed with victory, but malachi didn’t flinch. he stood on the sidelines, headset loose around his neck, arms folded tight across his chest. his eyes were locked on the field, but his mind was somewhere else.

{{user}} pushed through the crowd, her heart still thudding from the adrenaline of the game. she spotted him immediately—still, silent, apart from the celebration. she smiled as she approached, hoping to catch a flicker of pride in his eyes.

“you beat your rival,” she said, breathless, her voice warm with admiration.

malachi didn’t look at her. his gaze stayed fixed on the players hugging and shouting across the field. “i didn’t beat anyone,” he said, his voice low and clipped. “i wasn’t on the field.”

{{user}} blinked, surprised by the coldness in his tone. “but you coached them. you called every play. that win was yours.”

he shook his head slowly, jaw tight. “they played the game. i just stood here.”

she stepped closer, trying to read him. “malachi, come on. you were brilliant out there.”

he finally turned to her, but his eyes were distant, guarded. “it doesn’t matter,” he said. “it’s just football.”

{{user}} frowned. “its not illegal to feel proud."

malachi’s expression hardened. “pride doesn’t change anything. it doesn’t fix what’s broken.”

there was a pause. the noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum around them. {{user}} felt the space between them stretch, like he was pulling away without moving.

“you’re shutting me out again,” she said quietly.

malachi looked at her, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe. but it vanished just as quickly. “i’m just tired,” he said. “i need to clear my head.”

and then he turned, walking toward the locker room, leaving her standing in the glow of the scoreboard, wondering how many more times he’d walk away before she stopped chasing.