Chapter 25 #2
I barely make it through the day without losing my shit. Every class feels longer than the last, and every encounter with her in the hallway hits me like a punch to the ribs. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t get the look on her face out of my head when she told me to go to hell.
By the time training rolls around, I’m hanging on by a thread. I need to run, hit something, experience the burn in my legs and pretend I’m not coming apart at the seams. But before I can step onto the field, Coach calls me into his office.
“The scout’ll be at the game,” he says. “Confirmed it this morning.”
I nod, the words barely landing.
Coach keeps going. “Your dad knows you’re back.”
My head snaps up. “Did he call you?”
“No,” Coach shakes his head. “He showed up.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
I sit back in the chair, stunned, with my hands clenched into fists against my thighs.
Two days ago.
And he said nothing.
Not when we crossed paths yesterday, when I walked past him in the hallway and gave him a nod like some dumbass still hoping to be seen. He didn’t assert authority, bark orders, or question me about why I was back on the team.
“Well, just give it your best shot out there tomorrow, Reece, and everything will work out,” Coach says.
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, pushing up from the chair.
But my head’s a fucking mess.
By the time training begins, I’m so tense I can barely breathe. Every muscle in my body is on edge, ready to snap or explode—I can’t tell which.
So I run.
Harder than I ever have before. I push until my legs burn, my lungs scream, and sweat pours down my back, soaking through my shirt.
I take every drill like it’s life or death, as if the scout’s already watching, as if the ghosts in my head are chasing me down, and the only way out is to keep moving forward.
It’s not about the scout or my dad, even though his silence still echoes in my ears.
It’s Sam.
If she never looks at me again, never speaks my name without venom, I still want to be the guy who deserved her. The one who should have fought harder. Who should have told her the truth sooner. The one who should have never let her walk away carrying all that pain alone.
Even if I never get the chance to fix it, I need to be someone she would be proud of.
It’s the night of the game. The night the scout comes to watch West play, or anyone else worth betting on. The night I have to matter.
The field smells of freshly cut grass, an earthy scent that lingers on your skin. But tonight, there’s something else in the air—something heavier. The smell of pressure, of too many broken promises to myself, and second chances already spent.
The bleachers are buzzing with so much energy. When the crowd roars, it hits the base of your spine and climbs. Saturday night under the lights. That means every fucking play counts.
I stand on the sidelines, helmet in hand, jaw clenched. The lights are bright and harsh, shining in thick beams, highlighting every movement, every mistake. No shadows to hide in tonight. No room for errors.
The scout’s somewhere, watching and judging. Measuring every sprint, pass, and block against some invisible standard I’ll never be told. He won’t remember my name unless I make him. Give him something he can’t ignore.
Coach pats me on the shoulder. “Play smart. Play hard. You’ve got this.”
I nod, but my focus already narrows. The noise fades away. The crowd turns into background static. It’s just the field now. The game.
Coach pulls his cap lower, the brim nearly covering his eyes.
“Listen to that crowd,” he says, his voice gruff and loud enough to cut through the nerves buzzing under my skin. “Let it get into your blood. Let it fuel you. Take a second. Look up there to see who showed up tonight. They came because they believe in you.”
I breathe through my nose before scanning the bleachers.
There.
Right in the middle, same seats as always. Noah. Aubrey tucked into his side, head leaning just enough to show they’re solid. And next to them is Red.
High ponytail. Face locked in that stare she has when she’s moments from shutting someone down with her words. And damn, she’s gorgeous. Even with that don’t-fuck-with-me look carved across her face.
Beside her, Lola is blowing bubbles with bubblegum as if she’s sitting through a math test instead of a game that might determine the rest of my future.
Jace’s seat is empty, and it feels wrong. He’s always there—usually stealing half of Lola’s food, running his mouth, pretending he doesn’t care who wins. Seeing that space sit empty, even when I’m still mad at him, hits harder than it should.
The whistle blows, pulling me back onto the field. The boys jog over. Before I can step forward fully, Coach’s hand presses down on my shoulder. It’s strong. Solid. A weight meant to ground me.
He looks me straight in the eye.
“I believe in you, kid.”
When he releases, I put my helmet on and sprint across the field, heart pounding. The crowd roars around us, a wall of noise and heat, and the boys are already hyped, shouting, slapping helmets, ready to go all out.
The first quarter kicks off with fire under my feet.
I’m locked in from the first whistle, every nerve firing, every muscle tuned.
I don’t just move; I hunt. Fast, aggressive, reading plays before they develop.
My cleats rip across the turf, and every time the quarterback thinks he’s got a second too long, I’m already in his face, pushing past the line, teeth bared, body low.
First snap, I break through and hit him hard enough to make the crowd roar. On the second drive, I shut down a run that should’ve gone somewhere. Instead, it goes nowhere. I drag the guy down by the waist and bounce back up before the ref can even blow the whistle.
Every time there's a hit, it gets a cheer.
Every stop causes the bleachers to shake.
I hear my name shouted—once, twice, louder—chanting, “Wilson. Wilson. Wilson.”
It doesn’t even seem real.
But I don’t stop.
I’m chasing every loose ball, barking orders, rallying the line as if it’s my damn war to win. Coach is screaming from the sidelines, fist pumping. My teammates slap my helmet between plays, yelling shit I don’t even register.
And then it happens.
West goes down hard.
One second, he’s charging shoulder-first into the line. The next, he’s crumpled on the turf, clutching his knee, his face twisted in a way that makes my stomach turn. The whole crowd inhales sharply. Silence falls over the field like a heavy blanket. He tries to get up but can't.
And just like that, the guy the scout came to see is finished for the night.
They help him limp to the sideline, his cleats dragging. It hits hard. West isn’t only the best on defense; he’s my teammate, and he wanted this as badly as I do.
When play starts again, I don’t slow down. I flip the switch. Lock in harder. Hit meaner. Because fuck, if he stayed and still is watching?
I’ll be everything he came for—everything he lost when the second West dropped. I’ll leave him no choice but to notice.
And if this is my shot?
I’m fucking taking it.
Second quarter, I fucking snap.
I find the edge, the place where thought ends and instinct takes over. No more wondering if she’ll ever forgive me. No more replaying the look in her eyes when she told me to fuck off. I silence the noise. Strip it down to muscle, rage, and motion. I play pissed.
First tackle, I drive the bastard back five yards.
Next, I hit so hard he hits the ground with a thud.
I don’t check if he’s okay. I don’t stop moving, don’t even flinch when someone’s elbow slams my ribs.
I want them flattened. Every single one of them.
I want their quarterback dragging himself off the turf by his fingernails.
It’s hot under the lights. Sweat burns in my eyes. My throat’s raw from shouting calls, from screaming at the line to hold. My knuckles are busted, skin torn over bone, blood seeping into the tape. I don’t give a single shit.
The crowd goes wild. They roar every time I hit, every time I move, every time I leave another guy gasping for air.
By halftime, we’re up by seven. The scoreboard’s glowing, the crowd’s buzzing, but my chest’s still heaving from the last hit.
I jog to the sideline, drenched in sweat, jersey clinging, my ribs aching with every breath.
I grab a bottle, chug the water—and spit it straight out.
Tastes like metal. Like blood and heat and something else I can’t name.
Coach is already barking plays, clipboard in hand, spit flying.
The boys nod, fired up, shoving each other with that rough love that only comes when you’re bleeding for the same damn goal.
I nod too because I want this—bad. Not just for the team, not for the win, but for me.
For everything I haven’t said and everything I’ve lost.
I charge the line, read the play, dive for the tackle, and get completely leveled.
Air rushes from my lungs. I hit the ground hard, pain flashing through my side. For a moment, all I hear is ringing. Everything tilts. Players surround me, helmets and voices.
“You good?” someone asks.
I take a breath in. Another one follows. My chest burns, fire-hot, but I nod anyway. “Yeah,” I rasp. “I’m good.”
Then I’m on my feet.
The crowd loses its mind. Screaming. Roaring. Metal bleachers shake under the intensity. I barely notice any of it over the pounding in my ears. It sounds thunderous inside my skull. Every breath is raw, every rib protesting where the hit landed.
Next play, I line up again without hesitation.
It doesn’t matter that I was face-first in the turf twenty seconds ago, lungs locked, vision filled with white. That moment is already gone. I leave it there with the dirt and the pain.
I burst off the line, driven by anger, desire, and everything I refuse to surrender.
I'm already fired up for the win.
Fourth quarter. Ten seconds remaining. One last chance for the opposition to take the lead.
The stadium’s lost its mind. Coach is shouting himself hoarse on the sideline. The boys are yelling across the line, hyped and feral. Parents are on their feet, fists punching the air. The bleachers are shaking, metal rattling under the weight of too many bodies and too much hope.
I set my stance and drop low. Every muscle tightens. I wait.
The ball snaps.
And I go.
Hard and fast, fueled by muscle, rage, and every ounce of frustration I’ve been carrying all season. I punch through the line, meeting the runner head-on. Shoulder to chest. Pads collide. The sound is brutal and clear. Bodies slam to the ground and stay there.
The whistle shrieks.
Game over.
We held the line.
We fucking won.
The field becomes chaotic. The moment the whistle blows, the crowd erupts like a wave, crashing over the turf.
Bodies push in from every direction. Helmets come off, boys scream, fists punch the air, and cleats stomp on the dirt.
Sweat streams down my face. My chest still heaves from the last play.
Every nerve is on fire. I’m not sure if I’m about to throw up or scream.
I turn and scan the crowd. Noah’s in the bleachers, his grin wide and proud. Aubrey’s got her arms around Red. They’re jumping, shouting, losing their minds with the rest of the school.
But that’s not what causes my stomach to flip.
It’s the man in the black coat standing right behind Coach, frozen like a damn statue while the world erupts around him.
Nothing but sharp eyes follow every move I make, studying me with an intensity that exposes every choice I’ve ever made.
He doesn’t push through the crowd. Instead, he waits until half of them wander off and the adrenaline crash hits me hard. I’m just about to throw up right there on the fifty-yard line.
He walks over, calm and controlled, as if he has all the time in the world. He pulls a card from his coat pocket and holds it out.
“Mayfair wants you.”
That’s all he says at first. No big speeches or hard sell. Just those three words, like a damn grenade dropped in my lap.
I stare at the card. Mayfair. The dream I’d buried so deep it almost stopped hurting.
I take it, fingers slick with sweat.
“Coach will organize a time,” he says. “He’ll talk to your parents. Then we’ll lock in the details. I don’t hand out cards for nothing. You’ve got something we don’t see every day.”
And just like that, it’s real. I’m no longer a kid who nearly squandered everything. I’m wanted. Fucking Mayfair wants me. I stare at the card, at the name on it, the logo I’ve dreamed of since I was ten years old.
Then he’s gone.
Coach walks up and slaps my back so hard I nearly stumble. “Knew you had it in you, kid,” he says, voice rough. “Knew it all along.”
I nod, but I can’t speak.
All I want, more than water, or air, is to find my phone and call Sam to tell her I did it. That football’s back on the table. That I didn’t fuck it up this time.
And maybe, a part of me still hopes she’ll answer.