CHAPTER FOUR
Lucas
The Texas heat rises with the sun like a vengeance.
It’s thick. Heavy. Oppressive. Like it’s trying to smother me and tell me I don’t belong here.
It remains to be seen if I do.
It’s not like the city rolled out a warm welcome if last night’s events are any indication of how it feels.
Emery.
Snippets of last night, of this morning, flash through my mind as the driver the team sent for me barrels through Austin’s downtown toward the Lone Star Rebels training facility.
She was so fucking pale when I left her. Her chin was held high with pride, but her trembling fingers showed she was scared of what could have been. Understandably.
But I can’t think of that now. Can’t think of her now. I did my good deed, and now I need to forget it happened, step into this new role with this new team, and earn my spot on the final fifty-three-man roster.
And if the reporters blowing up my phone are any indication, word is out. Lucas Hale is officially at the Lone Star Rebels training camp.
“Almost there,” the driver says as I scrub a hand over my newly shaven face. It feels weird after a few months with a beard, but superstition is superstition, and I always start every season clean-shaven. “Word is there’s some reporters waiting for you.”
Someone must have tipped them off that I was headed in. Either my agent or the team. Maybe both.
At least they still think I’m newsworthy, right?
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.
“Sure thing. You’ll get a great view of the facility in a few seconds when we clear this hill. It’s magnificent. They’ve really gone all out on it.”
And he’s right. When it comes into view, I’m impressed.
Steel. Glass. An angular, behemoth of a structure that serves as the Rebels headquarters.
To the right of the building is a real grass football field that’s between the main offices and an indoor practice facility for when the weather gets too hot.
New money and new promises wrapped around an NFL expansion team with only one year under its belt.
And that one, underwhelming year means that despite how fancy this place is, no one—not the talking heads on television, not the armchair quarterbacks at home, not a majority of the fans in the stands—expect anything from it.
The brand-new home of second chances and long shots.
It seems I’ll fit right in.
That’s the plan anyway. But this is my fourteenth preseason camp I’ve been to, and for some reason, the nerves hit a little harder this time around.
With a yawn and a yearning for another cup of coffee, we drive through the complex’s gates. Within seconds, the entryway and the media that’s camped out there come into view.
The driver pulls the car up to the curb and before I can even grab my gear back and close the car door, the reporters descend on me.
“Lucas Hale!”
I draw in a fortifying breath and head into the melee.
“Why the Rebels?”
“Is this a one-season publicity stunt?”
“Are you actually cleared to play?”
“What do you say to those who’ve said you’re washed up?”
Washed up. Oof. That one hurt. But not any harder than the heat or the ache in my shoulder that’s been a steady, brutal pulse for what feels like years.
I hold up my hand to wave. Cameras flash. Mics are shoved into my face. I stop walking, not because I have to, but because it’s important for me to look them in the eye when I answer.
Because if I don’t, I can’t control the narrative. It’ll control me.
I take my sunglasses off and smile. “I’m here to play football.”
A few of them snort. Others push their microphones or phones closer, jostling for a better view.
A reporter with too much gel in his hair laughs. “At thirty-four after a shoulder reconstruction?”
I roll my shoulder instinctively. The motion sends a white-hot lance of pain straight through it. It’s sharp enough to make my vision blur for half a second, but I make sure my expression remains stoic.
I’ve been hiding pain for most of my career. Today will be no different.
“I’m not dead,” I say flatly earning a few more awkward chuckles. “And if you want to be technical about it, I’m closer to thirty-five than thirty-four.”
“So what’s your role going to be here with the Rebels? As a starter? A mentor? What?”
“Is this your farewell tour?”
“Why not retire with some dignity?”
Dignity.
Yeah. I had that once.
Back when I was the golden boy. Back when my arm was a weapon and not a liability. Back when my name still meant something that didn’t come with a question mark.
And while it came with an arrogance I could back up on the field, it also got me in a lot of fucking trouble.
I shift my feet. “You’re welcome to write whatever ending you want. Rest assured I’ll outdo it. My career’s not finished yet.”
And without answering another question, I give a camera-worthy smile and head toward the entrance, leaving them scrambling behind.
Inside the lobby, everything smells like polish and ambition. Let’s hope it smells like winning sooner than later.
The walls are still bare in places, as if the team is waiting to earn the right to fill them with memorabilia from championships. I like that. It feels honest.
A young guy in Rebels gear spots me instantly and jogs toward me.
“Lucas Hale,” he breathes like he’s saying a legend’s name out loud.
It does my ego good. I give him a nod. “That’s me.”
“Tyler.” He reaches out and I shake the hand he offers. “I’m in charge of . . . a lot of things.” He chuckles nervously. “We’re glad to have you.”
“Glad to be here.”
He stares at me for a split second, like he forgot what he was going to say, and then he grabs his clipboard again with both hands like it’s his lifeline to settle his nerves.
“Coach Brooks is expecting you.” He starts walking and then looks back and realizes he forgot to tell me to follow him. “I’ll take you to the locker room.”
“Sounds good.”
We weave our way through offices—marketing, operations, customer service, player development—and then toward places I’ll frequent. The film review room. Travel. Uniform.
We turn a corner when a man steps out of a large corner office with glass walls to our right. Tailored suit. Calm smile. And an even bigger reputation.
Grant Walker, the Rebels general manager.
“Lucas,” he says, already extending his hand. His grip is firm. Professional. Appreciative. “Great to finally have you here. Truly. This team needs leadership and your experience to help guide it.”
I nod. “Happy to help and contribute to the program and team.”
His smile tightens. “We appreciate you signing on to mentor the rookie, to steady the room and set the tone. It’s not easy to find someone who’ll be the voice of experience from behind the line without expecting any of the spotlight.”
There it is. Clean. Efficient. Surgical.
Their expectations.
I knew what they were when I signed, but I was also clinging to the being the “backup quarterback” part of it more than anything.
I’ve never not been the starter.
Don’t bristle. Don’t let a single emotion show on your face.
Christ.
This is going to be harder than I fucking thought.
“Glad to step into the role,” I say.
And I am. I signed the contract, read the subtext, and took the pay cut. Let’s just hope I make the final roster and can fulfill what that contract represents.
Still . . . as he steps away, I clench my jaw to prevent myself from saying something I shouldn’t.
Mentor.
Not starter.
Not savior as I’ve been in the past.
And I’m sure as shit not going to be the guy they’re betting on when seconds are left with the game on the line.
Just the steady old hand meant to keep the wheels from coming off.
Fine. Good. I can be that. And while I repeatedly have told myself that I’ve made my peace with it, that doesn’t mean it’s easy to swallow. Or that I won’t look for those opportunities to prove otherwise.
Besides, stranger things have happened in this league.
“And right here is the locker room,” Tyler says.
Sound explodes the second he pulls the door open. Music’s thumping along with the voices, and laughter’s bouncing off the walls. It’s new and yet similar to every other locker room I’ve walked into during my career. Still, I take it all in.
Young bodies. Fast bodies. Hungry bodies.
The future of the sport.
A few of them glance up when they notice me. Whispers ripple as I follow Tyler.
“That’s him.”
“Lucas Hale?”
“No fucking way.”
“I thought he was done?”
Done.
Gotta love a running back with one year of service under his belt acting like he couldn’t also be done with one wrong twist of his knee.
I straighten my shoulders though and step fully into the room.
Some of them blatantly stare. Some of them look quickly away like they’ve been caught studying something they’re not sure they trust anymore. A few look at me with hope.
Those are the ones who wreck me.
And then, I lock eyes with a kid across the room.
A QB’s build. Loose posture. Too relaxed if he’s the leader of a team that has a shit ton left to prove.
There’s a cockiness there I recognize instantly. The slight lift of his chin. The confidence that hasn’t been tested yet other than college ball.
Cole Valor.
The rookie.
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t flinch. And he clearly isn’t intimidated by me.
Instead, he just studies me like he’s already decided how this story ends.
Why the hell did I agree to do this again? To take a back seat to some hotshot who clearly thinks his youth and ability outweigh my experience?
Oh yeah, because his shoulder works and mine doesn’t.
Why? The answer settles in my chest—steady and undeniable.
For the love of the game.
For one more chance to play it.
I give him a respectful nod and before I can catch up to Tyler, Coach Brooks’s voice cuts through the room. “All right.”
The noise dies instantly.
Coach steps toward me, hand extended and voice gruff but solid. A man who doesn’t waste words and who couldn’t care less about the story people tell about you.
“Welcome to the Rebels, Hale.”
His grip is firm. Respectful. I return it.
“Glad to be here.” And for the first time since I stepped off the plane, I actually mean it.
This man is part of the reason I agreed to the contract.
That, and it’s not like anyone was knocking down my door.
But Coach is fair. He’s reasonable. And he’ll let me get in enough reps to show what I’ve got and earn a spot on the team.
That’s more than a lot of teams would give me, even with my long history. A second shoulder reconstruction will do that to you.
Coach gestures toward the row of lockers. “Your stall’s over there. Physical eval is in an hour.”
An hour. My shoulder throbs hard like it heard him. Like it knows it’s going to have to slip that mask on and pretend there is no pain.
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
Coach’s eyes flick to my right arm—just a fraction too long. He knows I’m not one hundred percent. Of course, he does. Everyone does.
He doesn’t say anything though.
I respect that more than he knows.
The quiet murmurs around the room masked by the music tell me he’s in the minority.
My fingers run over the Rebels logo stitched into the new gear waiting for me in my locker. New colors. New war. Same fucking fight.
And that war includes old battle wounds.
This is my last shot.
I know it. The league knows it. Every columnist with a keyboard knows it.
If I fail here, there’s no comeback story to tell. Just a quiet fade into what could’ve been on the many highlight reels from a life I used to own.
No one will see me break.
Not the team. Not the city. Not the rookies looking at me like I’m the standard instead of the warning.
And definitely not the world that already decided I was finished.
This is my last chance to prove that I’m not done yet.
And that I’ll bleed for it if I have to.