Chapter 9
SHEPHERD
The stadium in Omaha hums like a living beast with eighty thousand beating hearts.
It’s low at first. A steady vibration that rattles your molars and trembles under the concrete and weathered steel.
Then it crescendos as kickoff approaches like tsunami waves of sound crashing against the chipped paint of the tunnel walls as we line up.
Our cleats click on the cement as we prepare to run into the blinding sun.
I adjust my worn leather gloves slowly and deliberately. Left first, then right, tugging each finger until the seams align perfectly with my knuckles.
Because routine matters.
Routine quiets my mind.
It centers me.
“Hey, Haynes,” Jake Ward says, nudging my shoulder pad with his scarred knuckles. “You’ve been staring at the grass since we got here. You good or should I ask Coach to call in your replacement?”
“I’m visualizing,” I say, tasting the mint of my mouthguard.
“Looks to me like you’re procrastinating.”
“Same thing.”
He laughs, a sharp bark that cuts through the roar.
Jake thrives on chaos. He feeds off the electricity of sixty minutes on the clock.
But I thrive on order, the mathematical certainty of a perfectly executed play.
It’s why we work well together. Coach walks past, his face creased with game-day concentration, claps me once on the shoulder pads, and gives me the same instruction he does every game day.
“Keep them steady today.”
Not move them faster.
Not be louder.
Just keep them steady.
That’s my job.
And I’m damn good at my job.
Kickoff is at one and the first drive is messy. The crowd noise is louder than expected, a physical wall of sound that makes my cadence inaudible beyond three yards. There’s a false start from Orry followed by a dropped pass that hits Maxwell’s hands like a bullet before falling dead on the turf.
The huddle forms before our next play, a tight circle of sweat-soaked jerseys.
Bennett’s jaw flexes as he mutters “goddammit” through clenched teeth.
Kyler’s eyes roll skyward beneath his helmet, a vein pulsing at his temple.
Boone’s massive shoulders bunch like a bull’s, his nostrils flaring with each exhale.
I step between them, planting my cleats in the trampled grass.
“Reset,” I say, voice low enough that only our circle hears it.
It’s no inspirational speech and there’s no pounding of chests.
Just that single word hanging in the steam of our collective breath and they know exactly what I’m saying.
Their eyes lock onto mine, ten gazes steadying.
The heaving chests slow and the twitching fingers still.
Even the roaring stadium blurs into background static.
We break and settle into formation. The ball slides into my palm, leather warm and familiar. Linemen hold firm, creating a pocket of stillness while chaos erupts around us. I feel time stretch as I step forward, eyes cataloging the defensive coverage and then the ball spirals from my fingertips.
Maxwell’s gloves clap around it. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see the chains move and the bench erupts.
First down.
My heartbeat settles into the same cadence as my steps back to the huddle. Steady, measured, and controlled. This is what the face-painted fans screaming themselves hoarse will never grasp. Beneath the violence and spectacle of the game lies a chess match played in heartbeats and breaths.
At halftime the locker room is louder than I want it to be, but I’m not going to take away the team’s energy. Portland is leading Omaha fourteen to nothing and if listening to a little music during halftime is what the guys need to keep up the good plays, who am I to complain?
My phone buzzes beside me. I lift it to see a notification from the Haynes Brothers thread lighting up my screen.
Kill
Did you just throw that sidearm pass or am I hallucinating?
Hop
He did. I rewound it twice.
Seb
Mom texted me asking if he’s eating enough protein.
I smile despite myself.
Me
We’re up by 2 TDs. We’re fine. More than fine.
Hop
Good then you can tell us what’s going on with the bartender chick.
Kill
Real smooth, Hop.
Seb
He took her to food truck alley.
Hop
No, you did not!
Kill
OMG did you have the tacos? I think I hear my stomach growling already.
Hop
Right? But did he go there to eat tacos or…you know…eat one taco in particular?
Me
It wasn’t like that.
Kill
Well, how do we know if you won’t tell us? Come on, man! Feed us a little crumb here! Us baseballers are feeling left out.
I close my eyes and shake my head, a grin playing across my face.
Me
You fuckers need hobbies.
Seb
We DO have hobbies. Yours is apparently emotionally unavailable women.
Kill
Uh oh…
Hop
She’s emotionally unavailable? What did you do, Shep?
Me
She’s not emotionally unavailable and I didn’t do anything.
Kill
Maybe that’s the problem.
Seb
He likes her. I think our bro is in luuuurve.
Hop
*gasp* in LURVE?
Me
I wouldn’t go that far just yet. We’ve talked a few times and we went out…sort of…once.
Seb
Gotta run. Need to check on Whitfield’s shoulder. Good luck talking sense into our lovesick puppy dog of a brother. Later assholes.
Me
For the love of fuck, I am not lovesick.
Kill
Ignore him. Is she nice?
I pause, thinking how best to answer Killian’s question.
Me
She’s honest.
Hop
Yikes! That means she’s terrifying.
Kill
Sounds right for him then.
Coach calls us back and I slide my thumbs across the screen one last time.
Me
2nd half. GTG.
I toss my phone back into my bag and close my locker, returning my focus to the game ahead. Even though I’d like nothing more than to spend my time thinking about the beautiful woman who allowed me to be in her presence, I have a job to do.
The second half settles into place the way a game should, not with chaos, but with rhythm.
The protection tightens first. I feel it before I consciously register it, my pocket holding just a fraction longer, giving me that extra heartbeat to scan the field.
Orry adjusts his stance after the early penalty, his feet anchored, and shoulders square.
Bennett seals the edge cleanly and any pressure that may have rattled us in the beginning of the first half disappears, replaced by something quieter and more controlled.
Just the way I like it.
Jake hits his break exactly where I expect him and Boone pushes deeper into coverage, forcing the safety to commit earlier than he wants.
The defense shifts, trying to anticipate us, but we’re already one step ahead.
Every adjustment they make is one we talked through on the sideline, one we walked through in film study during a long Thursday night.
Every play they make is predictable, manageable and fixable. Midway through the fourth quarter, Omaha scores but we still have the lead by seven points. I’m not sweating, but I will be if they score again.
Our maneuvers aren’t flashy, no miracle plays or highlight reel moments, just steady execution, one first down stacked on top of another until the end zone feels inevitable.
The crowd noise shifts immediately. Omaha fans have been loud and relentless all afternoon, but I can literally feel their emotions turn to restlessness.
The energy changes from celebration to pressure, and the sound becomes heavier, sharper.
This is where most teams tighten up.
This is where mistakes happen.
But this is where I feel most at home.
The clock bleeds seconds like slow rain, each tick louder than the last. The scoreboard glows over the field, and for a moment the entire stadium seems to hold its breath, Omaha’s fans praying their team can tie the score and throw us into overtime.
But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.
I jog into the huddle, helmet pressing tight against my temples, every set of eyes landing on me.
They’re waiting for calm and that’s what I give them. “Trips right,” I say evenly, voice cutting through the noise without needing volume. “Stick to the plan.”
At the line, the defense shifts late, trying to disguise coverage.
I slow everything down—a small hand signal, a slight change to the cadence—letting the chaos swirl around me without stepping into it.
The snap hits my hands cleanly and the pocket forms. I take one step, then another, scanning left to right.
Jake’s covered.
Boone finds a seam.
I release the ball before the window fully opens, trusting timing more than sight.
It hits Boone’s hands and the sideline erupts once again.
First down.
We make two more plays, another short completion, and a controlled run from Kyler that forces Omaha to burn their last timeout and then it’s over. We kneel out the clock until the final whistle sounds.
Portland wins fourteen to seven.
The stadium noise recedes like a wave pulling back from sand as I wipe sweat from my forehead with my forearm, leaving a dark streak on my sleeve.
Three steps from the tunnel, I spot the teal streak in our team mascot, Riptide’s, oversized wolf head bobbing beside a cluster of kids in matching Rush jerseys.
“Shepherd! Shepherd!” a small voice cuts through the ambient noise.
I break from the line, Orry and Boone following. Three boys, all under ten if I had to guess, bounce on their toes, elbowing each other. The middle one clutches a Sharpie so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
“You guys came all the way from Portland?” I ask, peeling my jersey over my shoulder pads.
“We moved to Omaha last year,” their dad says. “They wouldn’t take off their Rush gear even when the neighbors threatened to egg our house.”
The middle brother’s eyes widen as I press the marker to my jersey and then hand it to him. His fingers trace the signature, mouth slightly open.
“One jersey, three brothers,” I say. “Tough math.”
“I get it Mondays and Thursdays!” the youngest one blurts.
I crouch to their level. “You guys play?”
Three vigorous nods.