CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucas
I don’t mean to overhear it.
That’s the fucked-up part.
I’m simply trying to find the office, the person who manages the temporary housing, to verify my stuff has been moved in there, when I hear my name.
The voices are lowered. Clinical and professional. A woman’s and a man’s.
“He’s clearly hiding something.”
That’s Emery’s voice. Fuck.
I stop. Not because I’m eavesdropping but because my body reacts before my pride can catch up.
I peek around the corner to see the head trainer standing with her. Evan? Oscar? So many damn names have been thrown at me today that I can’t remember for certain.
Owen.
Yes. That’s it.
Owen hums in thought. “Do you think he’s pushing too fast? Is he not fully recovered? What about pain?”
“I’ll know more tomorrow to be sure,” she replies without hesitation. “But I think it’s more than that.”
“Like?”
“A healthy dose of fear.”
Something inside my chest snaps at those words. She’s not wrong. She just doesn’t know the half of it.
“That’s a fair assumption.”
“He’s compensating. Over-controlling movement. Avoiding full rotation. Oh, and he lies without batting an eye.”
Owen chuckles. “Welcome to the NFL. Everyone lies to make sure they’re in the lineup and to stay relevant. There’s always someone behind you who’s hungry to take your place. Plus, he’s a quarterback. It comes with the territory.”
“I don’t care what position he plays,” Emery says, defiance in her voice. “I don’t—can’t—help heal someone who won’t tell me the truth.”
There it is again. That damn word. Truth. It’s like a blade sliding cleanly between my ribs.
I don’t wait to hear the rest. Don’t want to. I turn and walk the other way before I do something stupid, like confront them to defend myself. Or worse, let her see that she hit on something real.
I stride down the hallway away from them.
Hiding something. I snort.
How about pain? Doubt? Or the plain fucking fact that my body doesn’t respond the way it used to? That my arm doesn’t even feel like my own most times I throw. Or even worse, that I know I’m one hit away from being a cautionary tale instead of a comeback story.
Everyone hides something. Guaranteed she is too.
I shove the locker room door harder than necessary, and of course, I come face-to-face with the one person the Rebels have deemed to be their future. Cole Valor.
He’s leaning against a row of lockers like he owns the place. He has one ankle crossed over the other and arms are loose at his sides. He has a fresh haircut and confidence that hasn’t been dented yet.
“Storming out of here already? But you just got here?” His lips twitch. “Guess the doc didn’t like what she saw, huh?”
I stop, temper my emotions, and then meet his eyes. They’re bright. Sharp. And just a little too eager.
“Careful,” I say. “You’ll pull something if you keep reaching that hard.”
He chuckles. “Relax, Hale. I’m good.”
Of course, he is.
“That’s what they all say,” I reply.
He straightens, squaring up like this is a weigh-in of a prize fight instead of a conversation in a locker room. “Look, man. I know why they brought you in here. I hate to break it to you, but the last thing I need is a mentor.”
“Pretty sure I came here to play football.”
He snorts like he doesn’t believe me. “I don’t need someone hovering over my shoulder waiting for me to screw up.”
“So, you are worried about me? Perfect.”
“The fuck I am.”
I lift my eyebrows. Easy. Calm. My lack of reaction seems to piss him off even more.
“You’re here because the front office needed a safety net. A familiar name. Someone to keep fans comfortable from where he stands in his place on the sidelines.”
And there’s the bluster I was waiting for. The raucous noise to cover the fact that I make him nervous.
I take a step closer. Not aggressive, just close enough so he knows I mean business and that I’m still six foot five and not going to allow his ego to intimidate me.
“You done?” I ask.
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Because let’s get one thing straight. You will screw up.”
“Like you did in coming here?”
I bite my tongue and, rather than put him in his place like he firmly needs to be, I take the high road. The mentor road. The fucking highway management asked me to be on.
“No,” I say slowly. “Like every single fucking one of us does in this league. The mistakes? The screw-ups? They make us better, Valor.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” he says, his tone less aggressive now.
“No. You don’t. You probably think you don’t need anybody but then that wouldn’t make you a good team player, and we can’t have that in a quarterback, now, can we?”
“All I was saying was I don’t need you.”
“I know. You’re twenty-two and invincible.
Congratulations. You kicked ass in college.
Awesome. You broke some records and won some awards.
Even better. You know what you haven’t done?
Faced an NFL player who has been in this league for eight years, knows every trick in the book, and is gunning to sack the arrogant, snot-nosed rookie who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
” I blow out a long, low whistle. “I assure you that’s a bell ringing you’ve yet to receive.
” I step closer. He blinks. “You keep acting that arrogant around here, I guarantee your own teammates will suddenly have spaghetti arms and let that beast of a defensive lineman slip by so he can take your ass out and teach you a lesson.”
“Bullshit,” he barks out.
I raise my hand. “I was once in your shoes, and I can vouch from personal experience that it happens. So believe me. Don’t believe me.
But like it or not, we’re on the same fucking team, and you can bet your ass and that fat contract you signed, that there will come a day when you look toward me for an answer or advice. ”
“No, I—”
“I know. You already know it all.”
His jaw tightens. His chin lifts. “I have coaches.”
“Right. Keep thinking that way, and I’ll be taking your spot before you know it.”
“Bullshit.” He chuckles. “Bull-fucking-shit.” He goes to walk away and then stops and looks back at me. “And while we’re having this heart-to-heart, why do you get the hot doc?”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Jealous?” I ask. “Careful. That’s not a great look for a franchise quarterback.”
His ears go red.
I lean in just enough that he can barely hear me. “For the record, rookie? She’s a doctor and deserves respect.” And yes, she is definitely hot.
He scoffs again, but this time it feels more . . . forced. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way.”
I step back to give him space . . . to give him the illusion of control.
“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. If I’m in your way, it’s because you put me there,” I say and turn toward my locker without waiting for a response.
“Washed-up legend,” he mutters at my back.
I smile. Yeah. That’s fine.
Legends know how to wait.
I weave my way to my locker and sit down with my elbows on my knees.
The Rebels approached me to come here, but we’re on day one and it already feels like my future is all over the place.
The coaches don’t trust me.
The rookie doesn’t want me.
And the one person who might actually be able to help me sees straight through my bullshit.
Fucking awesome.
I change into practice clothes, lace up my cleats, and roll my shoulder again, already used to the burn.
If I’m supposed to lead by example, I’ll do that right now by running reps by myself.
I’ll find my footing.
One way or another, I’ll find it.
And when I do?
They’re all going to feel it.