4

ANDRE'S POV

Ten minutes to kickoff and the locker room was loud.

Cleats on concrete, tape guns, someone's playlist bleeding through a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. The usual pre-game chaos and I moved through it easy, bag on my shoulder, already dressed, already ready.

Lexie was waiting by the door with Rose. I stopped when I saw my sister. She was in her coat with her headphones around her neck, holding something up between two fingers.

Earplugs.

"What are you doing here?" I said. "Shouldn't you be heading to lessons?"

"Free day," Rose said.

I looked at Lexie.

"She wanted to come," Lexie said.

I exhaled and turned back to my sister. "Rose. The stadium is going to be loud."

Rose held the earplugs up again, completely serious about it, like she had already handled every objection before I opened my mouth.

I looked at her for a second. Then I almost smiled.

"Smart," I said.

She pocketed them and then looked up at me with that particular expression she had, the one that meant she had a practical need and was waiting for me to figure it out.

"Water?" she said.

I turned immediately. "Yo." I flagged down the nearest teammate, Davis, big guy, reliable. "Bottle. Sealed, new one."

He looked at me, read my face, and nodded without asking questions. Thirty seconds later he came back with one straight from the case, plastic still crackling. I checked the seal myself before I handed it to Rose.

She took it, examined it once, and put it in her coat pocket.

I watched her drift toward Tanner, who immediately started showing off for her the way he always did. I waited until she was out of earshot and turned to Lexie.

"Why did you bring her?" I kept my voice low.

"I didn't bring her, she asked."

"You know how she gets around crowds."

"She's autistic, Andre." Lexie's voice was patient in a way that meant she was done being patient. "It's not like she's made of glass. She'll be fine."

"Just keep your eyes on her the whole time."

"I will." She stepped in and kissed me. "Go do what you do."

Tanner appeared at my shoulder already buzzing. "Dre. Coach wants us out. Let's roll."

Lexie squeezed my arm as I turned. "Go crush them, baby. You always do."

Coach Howard caught me in the tunnel before I hit the pitch.

He was a tall man with a calm face that only moved when something was actually worth reacting to. He fell into step beside me without breaking my stride.

"I'm sure you've heard about O'Reilly," he said.

"I have."

"I don't have anything to worry about, do I?"

I looked at him. "No, Coach. You don't."

He held my eyes for a second, then nodded once and peeled off toward the sideline.

Outside the noise hit me before I cleared the tunnel.

My name in the crowd. Chants rolling through the stands, the kind you felt in your chest before your ears registered them. Camera crews along the entry corridor swung toward me and I let my face do what it always did out here. Settled. Easy. Like this was exactly where I was supposed to be because it was.

Tanner pulled up beside me. "Media's heavy today."

"It's always heavy."

"Heavier. People want to see if O'Reilly's the real thing."

I didn't answer that.

Warm-up was clean. I moved through drills on autopilot while my eyes did the actual work, reading the pitch, clocking bodies, filing things away. I had seen clips of Richard O'Reilly before today. Most of them were from high school, a year or two old at most, which meant his college experience was still limited. He was gifted, anyone with eyes could see that, but gifted in high school and gifted at this level were two different conversations entirely. College rugby moved faster, hit harder, and punished hesitation in ways high school never did.

He was walking into my house.

I had beaten men with larger reputations than his. Men who came onto this pitch absolutely certain they were the variable that was going to change everything, and I had watched every single one of them recalibrate somewhere in the second half when the game stopped going the way they expected. Richard O'Reilly was talented. He was also new here. And I had been doing this long enough to know exactly how that combination ended.

That was when I saw him.

He was on the far side of the pitch with the Wolves. Dark hair, wide through the shoulders, a jaw that looked like it had taken hits before and not particularly minded. He wasn't the biggest man on the field but something about the way he stood made you look at him anyway. Still while everyone around him was loose and loud. His eyes were already moving across the pitch the same way mine were.

My stomach tightened.

I crossed the pitch and I didn't overthink it. Two players meeting before the match. Cameras would catch it, that was fine, that was the point. Sportsmanship. Exactly the image the program wanted from me.

I stopped a few feet from him.

"Richard O'Reilly," I said. I put my hand out. "Good game today."

He looked at my hand then he turned his head and spat on the ground next to my left shoe and walked away.

Just like that.

Back to his side of the pitch, back into the drill, like I was something he had already moved past and forgotten.

I stood there, my hand still out.

I lowered it slowly. The crowd was behind me, the cameras were too far, nobody had caught it. To everyone watching it probably looked like a brief exchange between two players before a match. Perfectly ordinary. Nothing to see.

But I had felt it. The deliberateness of it. He hadn't done it by accident or out of nerves or because he didn't see my hand. He had looked directly at me, made a choice, and executed it without a single second of hesitation.

My face stayed exactly where I had put it. Composed. Easy. I knew how to do this. I had always known how to do this.

But my jaw was tight and my pulse had climbed and the hand I had lowered was curled into a loose fist at my side.

The referee's whistle cut through the noise and the teams started to get into position.

I turned back toward my half of the pitch.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?