Chapter 23 #2
“Damn, son.” Fernando laughs. “You better lock that down.”
I just grin and tap my helmet. What none of them knows is I already have, and it’s got nothing to do with what she might inherit twenty or thirty years from now.
She won’t need a dime when the day is done because I’m going to earn our life for us one yard at a time.
Mase knocks his knee into mine, a smirk on his lips when I look up, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He probably does.
Coach comes back in like a storm, clapping loud. “Let’s go. Pads on. Focus up. Let’s finish this shit strong.”
A collective “Yes, Coach” echoes across the space, and the locker room shifts. The jokes drop and the mood sharpens.
I roll my neck, stretching out the tightness in my shoulders, and push to my feet, following Mason out the door.
The team is jumping up and down, singing along to the music filling the stadium, and I bob my head, grinning like a motherfucker. I pull my helmet on, strap it up, and smirk at Brady when he gives it a little slap.
“Let’s go, my boy!” he booms, flexing his muscles with a grin.
Somehow, as we run out, the energy cracks the air even harder, rolling through my chest and down my arms.
You’d think it was the damn championship game, the way we’re all responding—everyone in the stands and those of us in uniform.
My eyes seek out my girl as the kickoff team takes the field, and there she is, tucked in beside Ari and Cam, her eyes locked on mine like she knew I’d be looking.
She lifts her hands in the air and does a little dance, and fuck, my whole chest warms. She can’t see my smile or my lips through my face mask, but I mouth I love you anyway.
And then I lift my hands high, clapping them three times in the air before extending them wide, as if to say This. I’m grateful for this moment right here. On this field, with these people in the stands watching. With you watching.
Her smile is fucking blinding, and I can feel the softness that I know her laughter is full of.
“This is for you baby,” I whisper. “For us.”
My eyes slide to the right, meeting my dad’s.
His smile is small, soft, and for a moment, it’s just us—me and the man who spent hours in the street in front of our house, teaching me how to catch. How to run routes.
The man who was always there, no matter what. Who is here now.
My nostrils flare as my emotions slip in, but all it does is hype me up more.
I nod—once.
A long sigh pushes past my lips, and I face the field.
This is it.
I feel no pressure. No nerves.
All I feel is downright determination.
The ref blows the whistle and it’s a turnover on downs.
Showtime.
I take the field, lining up on the opposite side for the second-half game plan—gotta keep them on their toes.
“Okay, my man.” The cornerback grins around his mouthpiece. “I see you. Let’s get it.”
A low chuckle leaves me, and I get ready. I know this dude’s stats.
He runs a 4.6.
My last recorded time was 4.3.
I smirk back, turning my attention to my quarterback. Mason nods and gets set.
Everything clears, nothing but the swoosh of my own breath in my ears.
My head is clear, my legs fast. Every snap is like pure instinct.
Coach doesn’t take me off the field the entire third quarter, letting me be the one who drives us down it.
It’s fourth quarter now and Oregon is finally making adjustments, so we change it up too, swapping me out with the running back every couple of plays, but in the end, the gain is mine.
Another pass comes my way, this one almost over my head, but I stretch up as far as my limbs will allow, yanking it in with the curve of my middle finger, the ball slamming into my chest as I come back down, cutting left, then right.
Fucking end zone, baby!
The crowd explodes.
I throw the ball into the air and run back to meet my team as they charge me with wide arms.
“Let’s fucking go!” someone shouts.
We’re going for two, the running backs taking the field, so I jog to the sidelines, sprinting sideways along it as I raise my hand, acknowledging the fans’ excitement as they try to get my attention, but there’s only one person I’m making my way toward.
She’s jumping up and down as she hugs my dad.
Fuck, the sight gets me.
He’s going to love her, maybe help heal a little part of her she lost when her own dad passed away. If anyone can do that, it will be him.
Nodding to myself, I spin around, taking the water that’s offered, and move over to my receiving coach when he waves me down, looking at the screen as he shows me the replay and what I could have done to make it even smoother.
I used to think he was an unnecessary dickhead, but truth is, he’s a perfectionist. I scored but that’s not going to stop him from making corrections where he sees fit.
I guess I’ve come to appreciate it—not that I’ll tell him.
“Why are you smiling?” He frowns.
A chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head. “No reason, Coach. I got it. Extend as I push off.”
“Mm-hmm.” He blinks, jerking his head. “Go on.”
Another low laugh leaves me, and I go to stand beside Mase.
He spits water onto the turf, his helmet in his hands as we watch Brady break through their line, knocking the ball down right as their quarterback releases it.
“Way to go, my man.” Mase nods, spinning to scan the fans while I continue to watch the game. “Oh shit, Noah’s here!”
My brows jump, and I spin around, finding him standing beside Ari. “How the hell did he get through the crowd without being tackled?”
Mason laughs, shaking his head. “I know, right? He… Wait. Shit—” His eyes narrow before slicing my way.
Frowning, I scan the stands.
“Who—” I cut off instantly, spotting her.
She’s wearing an AU football T-shirt. It’s crisp, the newest design, like she just bought it at the fandom store on her way in. She has glasses pulled over her eyes as she carefully descends the steps and something inside me softens, despite myself.
Mom.
She’s…here.
My temples pulse, an array of emotions warring with my insides, happiness mixed in but followed by an instant wave of grief. I shouldn’t be happy she came, but a little part of me is. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, talked to her even. But she’s here.
My lip twitches the slightest bit, but then a hand reaches around her, and she takes a cup this hand offers.
A frown starts to build and then she shifts, a man falling in step beside her. He takes her hand, helping her down the stairs, and all the air whooshes from my lungs.
No.
No fucking way did she bring him here. The man who she left my dad for, who she ruined our family for, but that has to be him.
She turns, saying something to him, and I see her point.
My eyes follow, landing on the back of my dad’s head, and everything in me goes cold.
No, no, no.
My stomach churns, and I take a step forward without realizing it, but Mason’s palm on my chest halts me.
She won’t. She wouldn’t dare.
Would she?
She starts walking again, this time faster, her hand still in his, and they are going right for my dad.
He’s going to have to see the woman he devoted his life to with another man. The woman he still loves with all his fucking heart, even though she took him for everything he had.
After all she’s already done, how could she do this?
She lost the right to be here, to speak to my friends. My dad.
She lost the right.
“Chase!”
I spin.
Mason has two feet on the field, his helmet halfway over his head. “Come on, man.”
Fuck.
My eyes snap to the stands once more, and I run onto the field.
My leg is fucking bouncing, fingers wiggling at my sides as we huddle, Mason delivering the play. It’s a slant right, not designed for me, but the ball always goes where the opening is. And the opening is me 90 percent of the time, so I get fucking ready.
I check in with the ref on my position, then look back at my best friend, waiting for him to snap the fucking ball.
The snap is made, and I move on autopilot.
She’s got a lot of nerve, showing up here today.
I’m half-surprised she even knows this season’s schedule. I sure as hell didn’t send it to her.
I cut left, deep into the twenty.
Mason sends the ball flying, and it’s coming right for me.
I chase its direction, but I overread, and the safety flies in front of me, the ball falling right into his hands.
Fucking interception.
“Fuck!” I bite down on my mouthpiece, shaking my head as I run off the field.
My teammates try to dap me up, but I ignore them, yanking my helmet off, glaring up at the stands.
She’s reached him.
She’s right fucking across from him, tickling Deaton in his mom’s arms like she has any fucking right.
My dad is stiff beside Noah, and when I look to his face, he tries to smile.
It breaks my fucking heart.
Fuck this.
I charge toward the security guard, tapping his arm to get his attention.
“Can you kick someone out?” I rush.
The man frowns, eyes instantly scanning for trouble. “What’s going on?” He lifts his hand, preparing to press the button on his headset mic.
“The woman in the long navy skirt standing on the stairs.”
He finds her. “Did she sneak down to the section?”
“I—I don’t know, but she needs to go. She’s—”
My gaze locks on my dad as Paige appears at his side.
She takes his hand, and I feel it squeeze around my own damn heart.
“My man?” the security guard prompts.
I meet my dad’s gaze, and he gives the subtlest shake of his head.
My jaw clenches, and there’s pressure behind my eyes. I swallow, spin away, and move back to the sideline.
I close my eyes, feeling my best friends’ steady support beside me. When the defense comes off the field and the offense goes back out, Mason asks the coach for a running play. I’m fucking thankful for it because my feet feel like lead. I can’t move, and then it’s Brady’s turn to be by my side.
I fucking love my friends.
My eyes burn, moisture building.
I can’t believe I ever did anything as stupid as risk losing this, losing my brothers. I will never, ever do that again. I will be better, always. No matter fucking what.
Unfortunately for me, the defense holds us, and if we want to dominate the way Coach has asked of us, we need that first down, which means we need a pass.
“You got this, brother.” Brady claps me on the shoulder pad, shoving me forward, and I jog out, stepping into the huddle.
“Good?” Mase frowns, hating this as much as I am.
I meet his eye, and he sighs, dipping his head and giving the play. We break and get set.
He snaps the ball, and I move on numb legs.
My poor fucking dad.
He doesn’t deserve this. Hell, I don’t even know how he afforded to get here this weekend with flights and hotel fees.
My arms pump, and I shift my hips, cutting wide, leaving my feet completely as Mason fires the ball down the field.
Hands up, palms stretched wide, the ball drops clean into my grip, but before my cleats even kiss the turf, someone barrels into me from behind, full speed. I go down hard, his weight crashing into mine midair.
My shoulder slams the ground first, my neck whipping back, and the rest of me follows.
The ball’s tucked tight, but the hit knocks something loose. It’s not pain exactly, more like a flash, a jolt of wrongness that shoots down my spine so fast I don’t even register what part of me it came from.
I hit the grass and roll, lungs empty, head spinning.
There are whistles and flags. Somewhere, a crowd erupts. But all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the hollow echo of my own breath trying to return.
Chest burning, I sit up on instinct, tugging my wrist toward me, forcing air into my lungs until it finally, finally comes.
My teammates crowd around. Mason drops beside me just as Coach jogs up, eyes scanning me hard.
“Got the first,” I rasp, trying to make light of it, trying to ignore how my right hand feels…weird. Not painful, but…slow, like the message got stuck on the way down.
Mason’s grin fades fast. “Holy shit, bro, your hand.”
I look down—and sure enough, my fingers are a mess. Crooked at odd angles, swelling fast.
Coach doesn’t hesitate. He yanks me up by the shoulder pads, already waving toward the sideline.
People try to talk to me, and I know her eyes are watching, waiting, but I can’t look. Not yet.
I duck into the medical tent behind the trainer, climbing up on the table while he slices my glove clean down the middle.
I hiss, but it’s not from pain, only I can’t say what it is from.
“Fingers are dislocated,” he mutters, already shifting one gently. “Wrist looks sprained, too.”
Of fucking course, it is.
“Ready?” the doc asks, lifting my hand.
I nod, bracing. One by one, he works the fingers back into place with practiced snaps. My muscles tense, teeth grit, but I refuse to make a sound.
When he’s done, he looks up over his glasses. “Two options,” he says. “We tape you and send you back in…or we call it here.”
My jaw locks. Easy. “Tape me.”
He reaches for the wrap, but pauses. “Flex for me first.”
I do.
Slowly.
Or at least…I try to. The signal goes out, but for a moment, nothing happens. My fingers lag, curling in just a little behind the thought.
The doc frowns. “Again.”
This time I force it, gripping tighter. Come on.
His eyes narrow, like he saw something he didn’t like, but he doesn’t push it. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” I lie too easily. “Just need the tape.”
He nods once and turns to grab the wrap, but pauses mid-reach. Watches me flex my hand again. There’s a lag, I know it, even if I try to fake it cleaner the second time.
He sees it and doesn’t say anything for a long beat, then lets out a slow breath as he sets the tape aside.
“Let’s call it, son. Game’s nearly done anyway. Grab some water. You did good tonight.”
My heart stops. “Wait—what? No. I’m—” I push up straighter, forcing my voice steady. “I’m good. Just…please, I can still go.”
He turns his head, meets my eyes.
“Please, I have to—”
“I said sit it out, son.” He interrupts, not unkind, but unshakable.
Final.
I swallow hard and nod, even as my stomach twists.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Not tonight. Not in front of them.
I was supposed to finish.
Instead, I’m pulled, and I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to say about it.
I step out of the tent with my helmet hanging from my fingers, the noise of the game washing over me like it means nothing. They call my name from all angles, expecting me to turn back.
I don’t.
I just keep walking.
Thought I had it, that I could do it.
Guess I was wrong.