The Pages Within [BxB]

Breaking Point

I don't know when it all started to go downhill. It feels like I've been slipping for weeks, maybe longer. Each day, the weight gets heavier—like I'm dragging around a boulder that no one else can see. And now, standing in the middle of the football field, surrounded by my teammates, I feel like it's pressing down harder than ever.

Practice is brutal today. The sun's scorching, burning against the back of my neck, and my muscles scream from the endless drills. Coach is on another tirade, barking orders, yelling about effort, focus, discipline—all the usual stuff. His voice slices through the air, sharp and relentless, but I'm barely registering it. My head's somewhere else. Still back in the library, still thinking about that conversation with Jason.

It's been days since we talked, and I haven't been able to shake him from my mind. Every time I try, his face flashes before me. His voice echoes in my head. The tension that hung between us—unspoken but undeniable—won't leave me alone. And now, it's eating me alive. I don't know what to do with it, how to process the confusion, the guilt, and everything else tangled inside me.

Coach blows the whistle, pulling me back to the field, and I line up for the next drill. The guys are locked in, moving fast, putting in the work. But I'm barely holding on. My legs are heavy, my thoughts fogged up, and frustration is building, simmering just below the surface, like a fire I can't control.

"Castillo!" Coach's voice booms across the field like thunder. "Move your ass! What the hell is wrong with you today?"

I grit my teeth, trying to focus, but it's like I'm in quicksand—no matter how hard I push, I'm sinking. My body's here, but my mind's a million miles away. The fight with Ava, the way Jason's got me messed up, the pressure from the team—it's too much. I feel it rising inside me, and I know it's only a matter of time before it all boils over.

The next play goes worse. I fumble the snap, the ball slipping through my fingers, and before I can recover, I'm leveled by the defense. I get up, but Coach is already charging toward me, his face red with anger.

"What the hell is going on with you, Castillo?" he snaps, his eyes blazing with frustration. "You've been screwing up all day!"

"I'm fine," I mutter, wiping the sweat from my forehead, even though I know I'm far from it. "Just an off day."

"An off day?" Coach's voice rises, and I can see the irritation building in his face. "You've had an off week. You keep this up, you're gonna lose your spot!"

The words hit like a gut punch, and I can feel the anger bubbling up, threatening to spill over. He's right. I know I've been off. I know I've been screwing up. But everything—Jason, Ava, the pressure—it's all crashing down on me, and I can't keep it in anymore.

"I said I'm fine!" I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.

Coach's face hardens, his eyes narrowing. "You wanna run that by me again, Castillo?"

The frustration inside me flares, reckless and wild. "I said I'm fine! You think I don't know I've been off? I don't need you breathing down my neck about it!"

The field goes dead silent. The guys are watching, their eyes fixed on me like I've completely lost it. And maybe I have. All I can feel is the rage—at myself, at Coach, at everything that's been spiraling out of control.

"Take a lap," Coach says, his voice cold, cutting through the tension. "Now."

I don't move. The frustration, the heat of everything—it's boiling over, and I can't stop it. Everyone's watching me, the team looking at me like they don't recognize me. Like they don't know what's going on, and hell, neither do I. I'm not even sure I know myself anymore.