Play Maker (The New York Knights Players Club #3)

1. The Draft

Chapter 1

The Draft

Kolby

T he draft ends while Deborah is crying into the couch cushions. Not big, ugly sobs. Just those soft, broken little sounds. I know that sound, the one that you make you when you feel like you did something unforgivable without even knowing what or how.

I sit there on the edge of the sectional, elbows on my knees, watching the TV scroll through names that aren’t mine.

Seventh round. Last pick. Mr. Irrelevant.

And I wasn’t even irrelevant enough to get picked.

Deb sniffles again, dragging her sleeve across her face. “I just … I don’t get it,” she says, voice cracked around the edges. “You worked so hard. I told everybody. I told my parents. I told all our friends.”

I nod, because what else can I do?

No one’s gonna be madder about it than I already am.

No one’s gonna feel it heavier.

It’s not just the career that would keep me focused and moving forward. It’s all I ever wanted.

“You should’ve pushed harder,” she mutters so low I almost miss it.

“More camps, more showcases. You just … you never know how to market yourself, Kolby.”

The words land soft, but they sting all the same. Not because she’s yelling, but because she isn’t.

She’s right, isn’t she? I didn’t market myself enough. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t win .

I don’t get mad. I don’t argue. I’m not him. I just let the guilt settle into the cracks of my chest and stay there.

I have a degree, I’ll be okay.

She slides off the couch and stands up. “I need to take this dress off and just … I need to go to sleep.”

I turn off the TV and sit back, fingers linked behind my head, looking down at the suit she made me wear so I didn’t look like an idiot when she was filming my call for our social media.

I’m wearing a suit; she’s wearing a designer dress and even had her hair done. I rented a suit to celebrate, using up almost all of the NIL money I’d saved, knowing I’d need it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The only sound is my deflating ego, and the shower just barely muffling her so when my phone buzzes and vibrates in my pocket, it’s like a scream.

For a second, I don’t even move. I don’t want to see another buddy post a “Drafted, Baby!” story. Don’t want another Lincoln teammate’s highlight reel shoved in my face like salt in a wound. But part of me finds comfort in pain, so I pull it out.

The screen lights up.

Coach Darden.

I swipe the message open with a thumb that still feels numb.

Coach D:

Don’t give up, Kolby. It’s not the end. It’s just the part where you find out how bad you want it

I stare at the words until they blur.

Coach Darden, the man who taught me how to square up and take a hit without flinching, who used to call me killer because once I locked onto something, I didn’t let go. The one who helped me escape when I needed to the most.

I drag in a breath, sharp enough to sting my lungs.

Not the end.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe there’s still one more door I haven’t kicked open yet.

I type back, thumbs clumsy:

Me:

Thanks, Coach. I won’t.

I set the phone down gently, like it’s carrying something bigger than just hope. Like, maybe it’s carrying a piece of me I forgot I still had.

But, for now—for this one minute—I sit here, alone in the dark, and decide I’m not dead yet.

Later, when I’m dumping out the champagne glasses we never finished, I hear her in the other room—voice low, sharp, half-hissing into the phone.

“No, Dad, you don’t understand. Miguel still knows people. He could’ve pulled some strings.” A pause, sharp and bitter. “You said the Jets were an option. You said. I told everyone?—”

I block her out. Pretend I don’t hear her. Pretend I don’t know she’s fighting for a version of me that’s never coming.

I fall asleep on the couch, half-dressed, draft dreams crumbling to ash in the back of my head.

* * *

I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m lying on a hard-ass couch, phone glowing in my hands, fingers scrolling uselessly through IG, doing my best to like and congratulate my old teammates.

When I’ve gotten them all, I lay my phone on my chest and try to think about what’s next.

If football didn’t work out, I had a plan. Not a glamorous one, not the kind you tell people about at fancy parties, but a plan that makes sense to me.

I figured if I couldn’t play, I’d coach.

Start at some small high school program, maybe work my way into college ball eventually. Work fourteen-hour days for pennies, breaking down film until my eyes crossed, riding buses to cold Friday night games with kids who think they’re invincible.

I wouldn’t mind.

Because football is the only thing that ever made sense.

It’s not just a game. It’s the language. The thing that taught me how to survive when nothing else did, when life got loud, and ugly, and mean.

I thought—stupidly, maybe—that if I stayed close enough to it, it wouldn’t feel like I lost everything when the dream slipped away.

But sitting here now, lights off, I’m not sure that’s for me.

Because you can teach a kid how to plant his feet and square his shoulders, but you can’t teach yourself how to stop feeling like a failure.

Because I know it won’t be enough. Not for her.

Deborah’s father made sure I understood that real clear the night we got married.

Big fancy lawyer, all silver hair and sharp eyes, pulling me aside with a bourbon in his hand and that voice, and a prenuptial agreement for me to sign.

“You want her? Fine. You make damn sure you take care of her the way she deserves. The way I expect. Or I’ll break you.”

No need to reflect on that—he meant it. Maybe he’s still waiting for the first crack.

And a life on a coach’s salary may work for me, but it won’t for her.

My phone buzzes against my chest, a number I don’t recognize.

I almost don’t answer.

But I do.

“Kolby Grimes? This is Coach Cohen with the New York Knights.”

I sit up so fast I nearly knock over the coffee table.

“We’d like to bring you in?—”

“Yes,” I say before he even finishes. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you.”

It’s not the draft. It’s not a first-round pick, a handshake, a jersey. But it’s something. It’s a door opening when every other one slammed shut.

“You have an agent?” he asks.

“I have a lawyer who?—”

“This is Lucas Links.”

I bite my fist to stop from embarrassing myself by screaming like a little bitch.

“We’ve been in touch with Drew Daniels who reps Warren, Hart, and Skinner. She had no idea we sat on pins, needles, and prayers you didn’t get taken from us when she told us we were idiots if we didn’t pick you up.” He chuckles. “You were in our top ten, even though we don’t need another running back. Wanna find a place for you. Your choice, kid, but you have someone like that on your side already. I’d be thinking that through. Loyalty means everything.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll contact her, and I promise you, wherever you put me, you’ll get one hundred and ten percent every game.”

“Perfect. Have your ass here in forty-eight hours. And Grimes”—he pauses—“bring a hundred and twenty.”

“I will.”

A female voice calls, “Grimes, this is Ava, the team’s legal head. You know what I’m not?”

“No, ma’am.”

“A sports agent. Contact Daniels.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I laugh.

“Cut the ma’am shit. I’m under thirty and shit hot,” she replies.

“And my daughter,” Lucas growls.

“Yes, sir.” I chuckle.

“He’s under fifty and shit hot, too.” A woman laughs. “Save sir for your coaches.”

“I’d say yes ma’am, but I’m guessing you’re not old enough for that and shit hot, as well.”

She snorts, and Lucas says, “And she’s my wife, kid.”

“Fuck,” I mumble.

Laughing, the lawyer says, “I messaged Daniels. She’s gonna call you. We’ll see you soon.”

“Yes … um …”

“Ava.”

When my call with Drew ends, I should be on top of the world, waking my wife up, fucking her till we both can’t move, but that ain’t happening, because when I mentioned Drew had messaged me before, offering to represent me, she had a lot to say.

Deborah has nothing but contempt for her. Said she’s a joke, just some D1 hockey burnout with a pretty face and a slutty reputation, riding her dad’s last name and her bedroom habits to try to stay relevant.

Deb said I deserved better and her dad was a lawyer and would look over any contract I needed him to.

So, yeah, I’m not going to deal with that, not tonight.

Instead, I send Coach D a text.

* * *

I fall asleep in the chair in the corner of the room, waiting to share the news with her. I desperately want to see her happy and proud of me.

When I wake up, she’s walking out of the bathroom, and before she even looks in my direction, I blurt out, “I got an invite,” heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s going to punch through my ribs. “The Knights. They want me.”

She looks up, blinking slow. “The Knights,” she says carefully, like she’s trying to figure out if this is real.

I smile and nod.

“They’re … not real New York, Kolby. They’re Knoxville. Everyone still calls them that.”

I shove past the lump forming in my throat, smiling so wide it almost hurts, and stand. “Yeah, but Deb, Hunt, Skinner, and Hart are there. Remember the good old days at Lincoln?” I laugh, reaching for her hands. “It’s like fate. I’ll be playing with the guys you used to watch from the student section, back where we fell in love.”

Her mouth pulls tight at the edges, but I keep going, words tumbling out fast, trying to paint it bright enough she’ll see it.

“I get picked, I’ll get a signing bonus,” I add. “It won’t be huge, but it’ll be enough. We can use it for a down payment. A real place. Our home.”

Her brows lift, interest sparking.

“In the city,” I push. “I’ll commute. I’ll travel. Whatever it takes until I get transferred closer.”

She softens, just a little. “I’ll try to be with you as much as I can,” she says, squeezing my hands lightly. “Travel to the good games. Be there when it matters.”

Relief crashes through me so fast I could drown in it.

Because this is it, right? This is the start. This is the part where it all turns around. Where we build the life she used to dream about. One where her old man will finally stop looking at me like he sees who I was and not who I’m trying to be.

I kiss her knuckles, one by one. Swearing silently, in the back of my mind, that I’ll make her proud. That I’ll make it all worth it.

I don’t see the way her eyes drift back to her phone in one hand when she says, “We gotta call Daddy. He needs to look over your paperwork and contracts. Maybe he’ll start a whole sports division in the firm and?—”

“Drew Daniels,” I say, and her face pinches tight. Then I tell her she’s the one who fought for me.

It may be the end of April, but winter has returned.

“He’s going to be so disappointed in you.”

* * *

The new dorms smell like fresh paint, fresh carpet, and a fresh start I’m not sure I deserve, but I’ll take it.

Everything gleams—slick floors, bright lights, stainless steel door handles that look like they belong in a fancy hotel instead of a football facility.

The Knights logo is plastered across the walls, a reminder . You’re here now. You made it. Make this count.

I drag my duffel up the polished stairs, the strap biting into my shoulder, seams stretched to their limits. Everyone else is hauling designer luggage. Custom bags with college team logos embroidered across them. Roller cases that probably cost more than what I had in my bank account last month.

Some have parents trailing behind, moms snapping pictures, dads giving shoulder slaps and last-minute advice. Money. Support. Safety nets.

I’ve got a duffel that smells like turf tape and desperation, a pair of cleats that are three seasons old, and a box of protein bars crushed at the bottom of my bag. No one’s trailing behind me. No one waiting to catch me if I fall. Which means, I can’t … not this time.

I shoulder through the sleek new hallway to Room 323—fresh white paint, crisp black numbers printed perfectly above the door. Swipe the key card. Push the door open.

Inside, it’s spotless. Two twin beds with sharp hospital corners. Two desks. A shared closet. No posters. No clutter. No memories yet. Just a blank, empty space—a fresh slate—waiting to see who’ll earn the right to stay.

I drop my duffel on the bed nearest the window, the thud loud enough to echo against the bare walls. For a second, I just sit there, pushing past the noise and seeking the silence.

Then laughter comes from the hallway, girls teasing each other about the players they pulled for, baby daddies, and calling dibs.

“Leave it to you to choose a married one,” one says, and I wonder if the other married players are going through the same shit.

“In my fantasy, he’s single.” They laugh.

She continues, “You know what you get when you add sixty-eight and the right one ?”

They all laugh and whisper, giggles of sixty-nine echoing through the hall.

When the door opens, I step into the bathroom, not wanting to embarrass the girl.

I see two dark-haired girls set a giant basket on each of the desks, and then one whispers, “Shit, there’s a bag here.”

Muffled laughter comes from the hall, and shushing comes from the giggling girls who exit the room quickly.

When I walk out, I see my name on a gold nameplate set inside a giant black basket.

Knights swag. Fucking epic , I think as I rub my hands together and step to the one with my name on it.

The first thing I see is an iPad still wrapped in plastic. The playbook, the fucking playbook. There’s a black metal Knights-branded water bottle. A few folded shirts, compression shorts, socks, black slides, and even boxers all with the Knights’ logo.

Underneath all the snacks they packed in the basket, in bold, block letters, stitched into midnight-black mesh, is my last name.

My throat tightens. I’m barely breathing. Just standing here, letting my hands rest on the edge of the desk for a second.

Everything in this basket is brand new, but I’m still carrying the old version of me, the kid from a dead-end town who only ever felt useful when he had a ball in his hands and something worth hitting in front of him.

That kid? He never saw a room like this, only dreamed of it.

But this isn’t a dream, not a what-if. And the jersey is not just fabric and thread—it has weight and meaning … a promise.

I move toward it slowly, like if I touch it too fast, it might vanish. I pick it up.

It’s crisp. New. It smells like ink, and polyester, and expectation. I run my fingers over the stitching—first my last name, then the number.

I hold it out and let it unfold.

GRIMES

Not the number I wore in college. But right now? It’s the number that means I belong. I’m here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it count.

* * *

It isn’t until after the team dinner, when I’m lying in bed, a kid from California who thinks he’s better than me, Stockton, sawing wood, that I remember the giggling girls, and I’m 68 …

I let that inflate my ego a bit and fall asleep smiling.

* * *

Four days later, I return to New York from the minicamp. I am ready to grab my things, sign annulment papers, head to Mississippi, and stay with Skinner until we have to report back to camp.

When I get to Deb’s family’s Park Ave place, however, she opens the door, smiling, and beyond her, a whole room full of people I don’t know. She hugs me and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Dozens of “Congratulations” sound off behind her.

“Dad insisted we throw you a party.”

* * *

After I got that contract —two years as an undrafted free agent— and signing bonus, we put the down payment on our one point eight million dollar “starter home,” one she picked out.

It wasn’t Park Avenue, but it was close enough to her parents’. It was also tall enough that she could look down on everyone while shadows cast from the skyscrapers surrounding us fell across me, shielding me just enough to make me appear like I could belong. But when I left for training camp, she made it clear that she did.

She started in again about the Knights being a disappointment. It never stopped.

Before I even played my first game, we were separated.

Word of advice? Never marry a lawyer’s daughter, because here I am now, years later, just treading water.