Between the Lines

Tequila Sweat

**Alex**

The sun was too bright, streaming through unfamiliar curtains. I blinked, my head pounding, and then I felt it—someone else's warmth beside me. Shit. I glanced over at the blonde next to me, her face peaceful in sleep, and then at the clock on the nightstand. Double shit. I was late. Really late.

I scrambled out of bed, my heart racing. Clothes were scattered all over the floor—my shirt was tangled with her dress, my jeans halfway under the bed. As I yanked on my jeans, she stirred, opening her eyes slowly.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep. "Stay a little longer."

"Babe, no can do," I replied, tugging on my shirt as fast as I could. "I gotta get to practice."

"Come on, just a few more minutes," she murmured, reaching out to pull me back.

I dodged her grip, grabbing my shoes and jacket. "Sorry, really gotta go." I leaned in and kissed her quickly on the cheek, more out of habit than anything else, and then I was out the door, my heart pounding not just from the rush but from the realization that I was seriously, epically late.

The streets outside were too quiet, not a cab in sight. I jogged a block, then another, until finally, I flagged one down, sliding into the backseat and barking out the address of the training ground.

Every tick of the clock was like a countdown to my doom. By the time we pulled up, I was practically throwing money at the driver and bolting toward the entrance. I could already picture Coach Brian's face, and it wasn't pretty.

Bursting through the doors, I didn't bother to catch my breath. I was greeted with the sight of Coach Brian, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he'd been waiting just for me.

"Nice of you to join us, Cooperfield," he said, his voice cold.

"Sorry, Coach," I muttered, my mind racing for an excuse, but coming up with nothing that would fly.

"Get changed. Now."

I didn't need to be told twice. I sprinted to the changing room, stripping out of my clothes as quickly as I'd thrown them on just minutes before. The usual banter and noise of the team felt like a distant hum as I pulled on my gear, my mind already on the field, knowing I'd need to make up for this.

As I laced up my boots, I could feel the pressure mounting. Today was going to be rough.

Sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes as I pushed through the drills. My legs felt like they were made of lead, each step heavier than the last. The coach's voice barked commands in the background, but I could barely focus on his words. My head was still pounding from last night's mistakes.

"Come on, Alex! Keep up!" Coach hollered, his voice cutting through the haze of my hangover.

I grit my teeth, forcing my body to move faster, even though every part of me wanted to collapse on the spot. My stomach churned, a painful reminder of the tequila shots I'd downed at the club. The girl—was it Jennifer? Jenna? Hell if I knew—was a blur, just like the rest of the night. All I remembered was the music, the lights, and then waking up this morning with a splitting headache.

"Looks like someone had a rough night!" one of my teammates, Jamie, called out, grinning as he jogged past me. "You sure you didn't leave your game on the dance floor, mate?"

"Yeah, I'm surprised you even made it to training," another chimed in, laughing.

"Shut up," I muttered, trying to ignore them, but my head was pounding too much to offer a real comeback. I could feel their eyes on me, judging, waiting for me to crack.