Chapter 12 Quentin
quentin
Two days of waiting feels like holding a lit match between my fingers and watching it burn down to the skin.
I channeled it the way I always do. Film study until my eyes ached, extra reps after practice when the field was empty, and reviewing the opposing team's defensive schemes until I could predict their blitz packages in my sleep.
Milo caught me rewatching game tape at two in the morning and physically closed my laptop, which I let him do only because he was right and I'd never admit it.
The plan is simple. Win the game. Face the consequences after.
Everything else gets compartmentalized, packed into a box I won't open until the final whistle blows.
Except Chad isn't cooperating with the timeline.
Pre-game warmups tell me everything I need to know. The smug performance he wears like a second skin is gone, the bicep flexing and the loud declarations stripped away, replaced by something darker.
He runs drills with a focus that I'd almost respect if it weren't aimed so specifically at me.
Shoulder checks during stretches that linger a beat too long, his body angling into my space instead of past it.
A late shove during the scrimmage walkthrough that the position coach either doesn't see or chooses not to address.
Each one targeted and each one delivered with eye contact, daring me to react.
I don't give him anything. My face stays neutral, my body absorbs the contact, and I run the next drill like nothing happened.
Milo catches my eye from across the field where he's warming up with the special teams unit, his kicking tee set up on the thirty-yard line.
His expression asks the question. I give him a single shake of my head. Not now.
The stadium starts to fill as we continue to warm up, their voices building over the marching band's fight songs and the announcer's pre-game introductions.
Scouts sit in a roped-off section near the press box with their clipboards and tablets out, and I file their presence away the same way I file everything else, useful information stored for later when I have the bandwidth to care about it.
Iris is in the stands, section C, fourth row, the same spot she always sits for home games.
Her laptop is closed for once, tucked under the seat, her attention fully on the field.
She's wearing the team colors with a teal and gold scarf wrapped around her neck, her braids pinned up with the gold clips.
My eyes find her during warmups without my permission and I have force them back to the field before anyone notices where I'm looking.
Just get through the game.
The first quarter is clean. Chad focuses on the game, leaving me alone.
By the second quarter, we’re sitting at 14-7.
I line up in the backfield and read the defensive front, counting bodies in the box while the play clock ticks down.
The call is a screen pass designed to pull the linebackers upfield and let me slip underneath for the catch.
It’s a simple execution that I've run a hundred times in practice.
The ball snaps and I sell the block, holding my position for two counts before releasing. The pass hits my hands and I turn upfield, picking up fifteen yards before the safety closes the angle and my foot catches the sideline. The whistle blows, ending the play.
Chad's hit arrives two full seconds later.
The impact comes from my blindside, his shoulder driving into my ribs with his full weight behind it, and my feet leave the ground before I can brace for the landing.
The turf catches my left shoulder first, pain detonating through the joint that locks my whole arm up.
The crowd noise shifts around me, cheering cutting to a collective gasp, and two yellow flags hit the turf while I'm still on my back trying to get my arm to respond to basic instructions.
Pain spreads outward as I stumble to my feet, trying not to make a big deal out of what absolutely was on purpose. "I'm fine." I wave them off before the medics reach me.
"You need to get checked—"
"After the drive."
Coach is screaming at the refs from the sideline, his headset yanked down around his neck, his face a shade of red I've never seen on him before. The penalty flag is for unnecessary roughness. Fifteen yards, automatic first down.
Chad is standing exactly where he delivered the hit, his helmet tilted back on his head, staring at me with an expression that isn't remorse or satisfaction.
It's frustration. He wanted more of a reaction.
He wanted me on the ground, the trainers carting me off, the crowd seeing what happens to people who take things that belong to him.
I hold his gaze for three seconds, then turn back to the huddle and run the next play with my shoulder screaming through every step, my left arm tucked against my ribs while the running back takes the carry.
The trainers reach me on the sideline before I can wave them off again, two of them flanking me with their med kits, already reaching for my shoulder.
I'm in the middle of telling them I'm fine when Iris appears at the edge of the field.
She hops the railing separating the stands from the sideline, the security volunteer near the gate stepping aside because everyone on this field knows who she is, and by the time I register what's happening she's already pushing past the trainers and standing in front of me with her hands reaching for my face.
"Don't." I try to step back but her palms are already on my jaw, her dark eyes scanning mine for signs of concussion before moving to my shoulder.
Her fingers press along the AC joint with a precision that tells me she's been paying attention in every Sports Medicine lecture she's ever audited, and the contact sends a jolt through the injury that makes me hiss through my teeth.
"You're not fine." Her voice is steady but her hands are shaking against my skin, the tremor so slight that only I can feel it. "You're getting checked out. Now."
"Iris—"
"Now, Quentin."
I let her guide me toward the medical tent, her hand on my good arm, her body close enough to mine that there is no ambiguity about what this looks like.
She's not behaving like the team bookkeeper checking on an injured player.
She's not behaving like the coach's daughter maintaining professional distance.
She's holding my arm and walking me off the field and her scent has gone so warm and protective that every person we pass can smell it.
I let her. That's the part that matters.
I could have shrugged her off and told her to go back to the stands or even maintained the distance we've been keeping in public.
Instead, I let Iris Delacroix walk me off the field in front of the scouts and the crowd and the entire Knotlocke sideline because my shoulder hurts and her hands are gentle and I'm tired of pretending she's not mine.
Chad's voice cuts across the bench before we reach the tent.
"You seeing this?" He walks off the field after the penalty with his helmet in his hand, his eyes locked on the two of us.
Kevin is already on his feet at the end of the bench, his tweaked hamstring apparently forgotten, his mouth hanging open.
Chad raises his voice, making sure it carries to the cluster of coaches and players gathered near the sideline.
"They're dating. Both of them, right under Coach's nose, with his daughter.
" He gestures toward me and Iris, then toward Milo standing frozen near the kicking net. "The whole time. Total disrespect."
The sideline goes quiet. The game is still happening behind us with the opposing team running their offensive series and the crowd noise filling the stadium, but on the Knotlocke bench everything has stopped. Every player, every trainer, every assistant coach turns to look at Coach Delacroix.
He's standing at the fifty-yard line with his headset around his neck and his playbook tucked beneath his arm. His gaze moves to Iris, standing beside me with her hand still on my arm, no longer hiding anything from anyone. Then to me. Then to Chad.
The silence stretches long enough that the stadium noise fills the gap, the announcer calling a play that none of us are watching.
His voice comes out in the quiet, measured tone of a man who has been coaching young men for twenty years and has learned that volume is the least effective tool in his arsenal.
"I never said any of you couldn't date my daughter.
She can handle her own, and if something was bothering her, she would come to me.
" His eyes move to Chad, the Alpha slowly curling in on himself.
"However, I expect every single one of you to treat her with respect.
Before this year, none of you proved to me you could treat her that way. "
Chad's mouth opens and closes without producing anything useful. Kevin sinks back onto the bench like he's trying to disappear into it. The rest of the team develops a sudden fascination with their cleats and their chinstraps and the Gatorade table.
Coach pulls his headset back over his ears. "We're up by ten. Focus, or I'll bench every last one of you." He turns back to the field, focusing his attention elsewhere.
Iris doesn't let go of my arm. She walks me the rest of the way to the medical tent without looking back at the bench. The trainer checks my shoulder while she stands beside the table with her arms crossed, watching every test and rotation with the same focus she brings to her spreadsheets.
"Grade one AC sprain," the trainer says, pressing along the joint. "Ice and rest. No structural damage."
"He's done for today," Iris says before I can argue.
The trainer looks at me. I look at Iris. Her expression leaves exactly zero room for negotiation.
"I'm done for today," I confirm.
The second half starts with me on the bench, ice strapped to my shoulder, Iris sitting beside me with her knee pressed against mine.
The coaching staff doesn't comment on her presence and nobody on the team makes eye contact with either of us for longer than a second. The bench has never been this quiet during a game but they also don’t know what to say.
None of us do without setting Coach off.
By the third quarter, it’s our ball on the twenty-nine with the score 21-10.
The offense stalls on three plays and the field goal unit trots out, Milo jogging to his spot behind the holder.
Forty-six yards. He's never hit one from this distance in a game before.
Practice, yes, dozens of times, but practice doesn't have twenty thousand people watching and three scouts with their pens hovering over their clipboards.
The snap is clean. The hold goes down smooth and laces out. Milo's plant foot hits the turf, and his leg swings through with a follow-through so committed his whole body lifts off the ground as the ball climbs in a tight spiral that clears the crossbar with at least five feet to spare.
The crowd erupts in chaos. Our teammates swarm him on the field and from the bench, I watch my brother disappear into the celebration with his fist in the air and his grin visible even through his face mask.
Iris' hand finds mine between us on the bench, hidden beneath the towel draped over my knee.
24-10
On any other night all of this would feel like something worth holding onto.
But the moment we hit the locker room, the side eyes and whispers are a lot heavier than anything out on the field. Chad left before anyone else with his locker cleaned out in under three minutes, Kevin trailing after him without a word.
Coach finds us as the last few players are heading out. He stands in the doorway of the locker room with his arms crossed, the post-game flush gone from his face. "My office. Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp." His eyes move between Milo and me. "Both of you."
"Yes, sir," Milo says.
"And tell Iris." Something moves through his voice when he says her name, cracking the professional veneer just enough for me to hear what's sitting underneath it. It's not anger. "I'd like her there too."
"Yes, sir."
He nods once and leaves. The hallway swallows his footsteps and then it's just us, and the faint sound of the cleaning crew starting their rounds.
I drop to the bench, grimacing as I grab my discarded ice and press it back to my shoulder. Milo drops onto the bench beside me, still damp from the shower, his bag packed at his feet. His eyes go straight to the ice pack.
"How bad is it? Scale of one to ten. And don't say fine because I watched you wince putting your shirt on and that's at least a six."
"Three."
"Liar. You're holding it like it's a four and your jaw is doing the tight thing it does when you're at a five." He reaches toward my shoulder and I lean away from his hand. "Let me see."
"The trainers already checked it. Grade one sprain. Ice and rest."
"Ice and rest. That's it? He hit you two seconds after the whistle, Q.
Full speed, blindside, with his whole body behind it.
That's not a football play, that's assault with a helmet on.
" His voice tightens, the usual warmth compressed into something harder.
"I wanted to kick the ball at his head. I was calculating the angle.
Milo Vark, first kicker in NCAA history to get ejected for targeted violence against a teammate. "
"You would have missed."
"I would not have missed. My accuracy was flawless today. Career best, forty-six yards, dead center. I could have threaded it through his face mask." He's trying to make me laugh. It almost works. His expression softens as he settles against my good side. "Seriously though. You okay?"
"I'm okay."
He nods and lets it sit, his hands folding between his knees. For once he doesn't push further, just stays there, only my phone buzzing breaking the silence. I fish it out with my right hand.
Iris: Are you okay?
I type one-handed, my left arm still pinned under the ice pack.
Me: Fine. Tomorrow.
The three dots appear immediately.
Iris: I'm coming over tonight.
I look at Milo. He reads over my shoulder with his chin practically resting on my shoulder, a small giddy sound coming from him.
Me: Yeah. Okay.