Ch. 6

Rowan POV

The silence in the gym was suffocating. After Matteo had successfully ripped I and Wesley apart from each other’s neck. "Locker room. Both of you. Now," Matteo said, his voice dropping.

Wesley wiped a smear of blood from his jaw, glaring at me with pure hatred before turning on his heel and storming towards the locker room.

I stayed rooted to the spot, my chest heaving, staring straight into Matteo's cold, unreadable eyes. I wanted him to say something but his expression told me he was so angry.

He looked at the remaining players on the floor. "The rest of you, hit the showers. Practice is over."

I didn't wait for the guys to disperse. I turned around and walked down the locker room. When I kicked open the locker room door, Wesley was already throwing his gear into his duffel bag, muttering curses under his breath.

Ralph was standing near the water cooler, looking entirely stressed out. "Rowan, man, you can't just—" Ralph started, but I cut him off with a harsh glare.

"Don't," I snapped.

The door swung open again, and Matteo walked in. He didn't look at Ralph or the couple of sophomores who had lingered by the door. "Out," he ordered flatly. "Everyone except Hayes and Vance."

Ralph shot me one last worried glance before grabbing his bag and slipping out, pulling the door shut behind him.

The three of us were left in the room. Wesley was leaning against the lockers, his arms crossed, while I stood near the center bench, unbothered by the throbbing ache in my own cheek.

"You both think you're bigger than this program," Matteo started. He didn't raise his voice, which somehow made it worse. "You think because it's an exhibition week, you have the luxury of turning the court into a street fight."

"He threw the ball at Ralph's head yesterday, Coach," I shot back, mocking the title again. "And today he's running his mouth about things he doesn't know shit about."

"I don't care who started it, Rowan," Matteo said, turning around to face me directly. "You're the captain. The moment you swing a fist, you hand over your authority. And you," he shifted his cold gaze to Wesley, "are a backup point guard who hasn't proven a damn thing on this roster yet."

Wesley scoffed, tossing his head back. "He’s the one who's unstable, Coach. Ask anyone. He's a liability."

"Shut up, Wesley," Matteo cut him off instantly. "Here is what's going to happen. Neither of you is playing on Thursday. You will both be sitting on the bench in street clothes. If the athletic director asks, it's a disciplinary suspension."

"You can't bench both of us," Wesley said, his voice rising in panic. "We don't have another experienced guard to run the floor against the alumni."

"Then the team will play sloppy, and they will learn what happens when their leadership acts like children," Matteo replied deadpan. "But that's not all. Tomorrow morning, before classes start, you two are going to be back in this gym at 5:00 AM. You're going to run the bleachers until I tell you to stop. Together."

"Fuck that," I muttered, turning my back on him.

"If either of you fails to show up, or if I hear a single word of complaint, you’re off the active roster permanently," Matteo said, his voice completely unyielding. "I don't care who you are, Rowan. And I don't care how many points you scored last season, Wesley. Show up, or turn in your jerseys."

Without waiting for either of us to answer, Matteo turned around and walked out of the locker room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Wesley let out a loud, aggressive breath, slamming his locker door shut so hard the metal rattled. "This is your fault, Hayes. You're completely ruining this team."

"Keep talking, Vance," I whispered, not even looking at him as I unlaced my sneakers. "See if you can handle another round before tomorrow morning."

Wesley grabbed his bag and stormed out, leaving me alone in the quiet locker room. I leaned back against the bench, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes as the exhaustion finally started to drag me down.

If my father should see the updated roster change by tonight or hear I got into a fight,

the text messages would start all over again, asking me to go for therapy.

The next morning, the campus was slightly dark. I pulled my car in before 5:00 AM and walked into the building. When I pushed the double doors open, the court was dark, except for the lights illuminating the bleachers on the far side.

Wesley was already sitting on the bottom step, his head buried in his hands, wearing a heavy gray hoodie.

"Glad you made it," a voice echoed from the dark baseline.

Matteo stepped into the light. He was holding a stopwatch, dressed in his black coaching gear, looking as if he had been awake for hours.

"Up," Matteo ordered, pointing toward the top of the concrete stairs. "You run from the bottom row to the top, walk down, and repeat. You don't stop until the clock hits sixty minutes. If one of you cuts a corner, the timer resets."

I stripped off my track jacket, threw it onto the player's bench, and walked straight to the base of the stairs. Wesley groaned, slowly dragging himself up to stand beside me.

"Go," Matteo said flatly, clicking the side of the stopwatch.

We started moving. Within ten minutes, the silence of the empty gym was filled with nothing but the heavy, rhythmic sounds of our ragged breathing.

Wesley was flagging by the twenty-minute mark, his breathing turning into a ragged wheeze as he struggled to keep pace. I kept my head down, staring at the steps, forcing my legs to move through pure spite. Every time I reached the top row and looked down at the dark court, I could see Matteo standing at the baseline, his silhouette completely still, watching us like a hawk.

"Hayes... slow down," Wesley gasped as I brushed past him on the way up for the thirty-fifth time. "He's not... he's not even tracking the speed."

"Shut up and run," I growled, not breaking my stride.

By the time the sixty minutes were up, my lungs felt like they were lined with glass, and my vision was blurring at the edges. Wesley collapsed onto the bottom step, coughing violently as he clutched his knees. I stayed standing, leaning against the metal handrail, my shirt soaked with sweat as I stared down at the baseline.

Matteo clicked the stopwatch, slid it into his pocket, and walked over to the base of the bleachers. He looked up at the two of us, his expression completely blank.

"Thursday night, you both sit on the bench in suits," Matteo stated. "If I see either of you interacting with the alumni or distracting the active players during the game, you'll be running this exact set on Friday morning. Clear?"

"Clear," Wesley choked out from the steps.

Matteo’s eyes shifted to me, holding my gaze for a long, agonizing seconds. "Clear, Hayes?"

I swallowed hard, my fists clenching against the cold handrail. "Clear, Coach."

Matteo nodded and turned on his heel, and walked back toward the athletic offices without another word.

I watched his back disappear down the hallway, anger seeping under my skin.