4 first cuts
The field at Missouri State University doesn't feel like part of campus once I step onto it, not in the way the dorms or lecture halls do where everything is loud and crowded and slightly out of control, but in a way that sharpens everything instead, like the air itself is paying attention, like every movement matters more here and there's no room to hide behind anything except what you can actually do.
I adjust my gloves as I walk toward the sideline, tugging them tighter even though they're already set just right, more out of habit than anything else, because if I keep moving I don't have to stand still and think about how many guys are already here, how many more keep filtering in, how most of them are going to get cut and how that doesn't scare me as much as it probably should.
It's not that I don't get it, it's that I don't doubt where I fall in that equation.
I drop my bag near the bench and roll my shoulders once, eyes moving across the field without lingering too long on anyone in particular, because staring makes it obvious and I'm not here to look like I'm sizing people up even if that's exactly what I'm doing, taking in the way some guys move too fast without control, the way others hesitate half a second before every drill like they're waiting for permission, the way a few of them already carry themselves like they belong.
Those are the ones worth watching.
There's a quarterback in the middle group who stands out immediately, not because he's louder or flashier than anyone else but because he's the opposite, because everything about him is controlled and consistent, the kind of steady that doesn't need attention to command it, and the guys around him adjust without thinking, like they already trust him, like he's been here long enough that nobody questions it anymore.
So yeah, not a freshman.
Not trying out.
Already his.
I look away before it turns into something else, pushing my hands through my hair and grabbing my helmet as the whistle cuts across the field, sharp enough to silence everything at once, conversations dropping, movements tightening, everyone snapping into place like they suddenly remembered what this is.
Tryouts.
I jog over to the receivers, slipping into line, bouncing once on my toes just to stay loose while I take in the spacing and the timing and the way the drill is set up, because this part matters more than anything else, understanding the rhythm before you even move.
"First year?" someone asks from my right, voice easy, like we're not about to get picked apart rep by rep.
I turn my head and find a linebacker standing there like this is entertaining instead of stressful, built solid with that kind of presence that says he hits hard but doesn't need to prove it every second.
"Yeah," I say, offering a quick hand. "Jackson Bennett."
He takes it without hesitation. "Scott Allen."
The handshake is brief, just enough to register, and then we both fall back into place like it didn't need to be anything more.
"You're looking at everything like you're memorizing it," Scott says after a second, not mocking, just observant.
"Maybe I am," I reply, adjusting my stance.
He lets out a short laugh, glancing over again like he's reassessing something. "Receiver?"
"Yeah."
"Figures," he says, eyes flicking over me once more, sharper this time, like he's putting pieces together. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you think you're better than everyone here."
I tilt my head slightly, considering it for a second before shrugging. "I don't think. I just am."
There's a pause where he just looks at me, then he breaks into a grin like he wasn't expecting me to say it out loud. "Alright, Bennett," he says, shaking his head. "I like that."
"Good," I answer, because if he's going to call it out, I'm not going to pretend otherwise. "Would've sucked if you didn't, Allen."
"Yeah, I would've been devastated," he shoots back, but there's no edge to it, just easy amusement, like he's already decided this is fun.
It's weird how natural it feels, talking like this with someone I met thirty seconds ago, like we skipped the part where you're supposed to filter yourself, but the whistle cuts through again before it can go anywhere else, louder this time, pulling everything back into focus.
"Guess we'll see if you back it up," Scott says as he steps back toward his group.
"Watch closely," I tell him, already pulling my helmet on.
The second it settles into place, everything else drops away.
No noise, no extra thoughts, just the field and the spacing and the timing, and when I step up for my first rep, I don't hesitate.
I explode off the line, clean and controlled, cutting into the route like it's already decided, like there's no version of this where it doesn't work, and when the ball comes, it's exactly where it should be, right in front of me, easy to pull in without breaking stride.
I don't react after.
No looking around, no acknowledgment.
Just reset.
That's how you stand out without making it obvious, by acting like it's normal.
A few reps in, I feel the shift before I see it, that subtle change in attention when someone starts watching for real instead of just scanning, and when I glance toward the sideline, I find the quarterback again, closer now, arms crossed, eyes fixed in a way that isn't casual or passing, like he's not just watching the drill but actually paying attention, locked in on me specifically, and there's nothing on his face that gives anything away, no reaction, no approval, no dismissal, just that steady, evaluating look that somehow feels heavier than either one.
I hold it for a second before looking away, because I'm not here to play whatever silent game that is.
Next drill shifts into coverage, which is where things actually get interesting, and I line up across from a corner who already looks irritated before we even start, which works in my favor because irritated turns into mistakes faster than anything else.
The snap hits and I move, not rushing, not forcing it, just reading him for half a second before he bites too early, and the second he does I'm gone, cutting inside then breaking out clean, leaving just enough space that by the time he recovers I'm already where I need to be.
The ball lands in my hands like it was always meant to.
Secure.
Simple.
When I turn back, he's shaking his head like I just made it personal, and I have to fight the urge to laugh because it's not personal, it's just better.
"Damn, Bennett."
Scott's voice carries over, and when I glance toward him he's watching like he forgot he has his own reps to worry about, arms crossed now, expression somewhere between impressed and entertained.
"Okay," he calls, nodding once. "I see you."
"Yeah," I shoot back, jogging backward for a step before turning again. "Try not to miss anything, Allen."
He lets out a laugh at that, shaking his head, but there's something different there now, something more grounded than before.
We rotate out and I push my helmet up, grabbing my water bottle, the burn in my lungs settling into something steady, something familiar, and Scott falls into step next to me like we've been doing this longer than ten minutes.
"You always that annoying, Bennett?" he asks, taking a long drink.
"Only when I'm right," I answer, wiping my face with my sleeve.
"So all the time then."
"Exactly."
He snorts, lowering the bottle. "You're gonna piss a lot of people off."
I shrug, because that part doesn't matter. "As long as I'm playing, they can deal with it."
He studies me for a second, like he's deciding something, then nods once, more to himself than to me. "Yeah," he says. "I like you."
"Careful," I tell him, glancing over. "People might get the wrong idea."
"Relax," he replies easily. "You're not my type."
"Tragic."
Another whistle cuts through the field, sharper now, pulling everyone back into position, and I lower my helmet again, stepping forward without hesitation, because this is the part that matters, the part where it stops being about first impressions and starts being about consistency.
I move back into line, eyes forward, but I can still feel it, that presence on the sideline, that same steady attention that hasn't gone anywhere, and when I glance over again just for a second, he's still there.
Still watching, like he's already decided I'm worth it.
Or like he's waiting to see if I prove him wrong.