Epilogue
FOUR MONTHS LATER
The stadium is packed. Everyone on their feet, screaming so loud the air vibrates. Fourth quarter. Twelve seconds on the clock. We’re down by four.
I take the snap. The pocket collapses almost immediately.
A linebacker breaks through the left side, and I feel the rush of air as he misses my jersey by inches.
I scramble right, buy myself a second, and scan the field.
My receiver, Davis, cuts hard across the back of the end zone.
Two defenders on him. Tight window. This throw is nearly impossible.
I plant my back foot and let it rip. A tight spiral, threading between the safety and the corner. Davis goes up, stretches, and pulls it down with both hands. His toes drag the turf half an inch inside the line.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupts. My teammates swarm me. Davis is somewhere under a pile of bodies. The scoreboard flashes the final score, confetti cannons go off, and the whole world is noise and light and adrenaline.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. Guys are slapping my helmet, grabbing my facemask, screaming in my ear. Coach Briggs finds me and bear-hugs me so hard he lifts me off the ground. This win puts us at the top of the division.
I pull off my helmet and the cold air hits my face.
Four months ago, I couldn’t have made that throw.
Four months ago, I was a mess. Sleepless nights, shaky hands, a head full of static.
Now the fog is gone. The anxiety that used to follow me from the field to the bedroom and back again, gone.
My arm is a cannon again. My reads are clean.
My completion percentage is the highest it’s been since freshman year.
The guys in the locker room have stopped looking at me sideways.
And when I walk across campus, I don’t feel like a fraud anymore.
I look up into the sea of faces in the stands. My eyes find the one I’m looking for. Section C, row twelve, seat seven.
Lev.
He’s at every game. Home and away. He told me he has no interest in football, that he just likes watching me run around in tight pants. And I love the idea of him sitting up there watching my ass. Knowing that he’s gonna wreck it later, when we’re alone.
It’s a secret we keep. Not because I’m ashamed.
I’m done with that. I’m done caring what anyone thinks.
But I don’t want him getting into trouble.
His practice, his reputation, they depend on discretion.
And I’d do anything to protect him. That’s one of the ways he’s changed me.
I’ve learned to think about someone other than myself for once.
He’s wearing a hoodie in the team colors, clapping politely, a proud smile on his face. I hold his gaze. Give him a small, private nod. A nod that says, this one was for you.
He’s the one who taught me control. How to hold back. How to edge until I’m shaking. He’s the reason I can stand in the pocket with a 300-pound lineman bearing down on me and feel nothing but ice in my veins.
But I already know, when we get back to his place after the celebration, he’ll test that control.
He’ll break me down. Make me beg. He always does after a win.
Takes his time. Peels me apart until there’s nothing left of this brawny, confident quarterback.
Until I’m a trembling mess on his sheets. Only then does he reward me.
I can’t fucking wait.
The End