CHAPTER NINE
Lucas
Freshly cut grass.
The scent brings me back to my Pop Warner football days.
The first experience of a game I fell in love with.
The cheerleaders cheering. The burn of new cleats on growing feet as they slowly stretch out.
The pain that comes from taking your first real hit.
The overly enthusiastic parents on the sidelines, shouting after every throw or tackle.
But this fresh-cut grass scent comes with air that already feels thick enough you can chew on.
The heat emanates off the ground in waves making the whole field feel like a sauna.
Somewhere in the distance, the grounds crew finishes mowing and the whine of the machine fades until all that’s left is the dull thud of footballs, the sharp bark of coaches, and the constant, sometimes desperate undercurrent of men trying to prove they deserve to be here.
I walk out of the shade of the tunnel with my helmet in my hand and my shoulder anticipating the pain it’s about to endure.
That’s our prearranged agreement.
I ignore it.
It behaves.
For now.
I take a look around to get the lay of the land and stifle a yawn—a reminder of last night that doesn’t have any place on this field.
I shake my head to clear it. Typically, each team—first string, second string, practice squad and the like—trains differently and by how the squads are separated out on the field before me, the Rebels organization is no different.
It’s an hour ahead of my squad’s scheduled practice start time, and so far, it looks like there’s a group of rookies here. A few of the vets too.
I know some of them from playing with them on previous teams.
Some of them nod when I pass. A few don’t. Most pretend not to look and then do anyway.
I’m old news and a fresh reminder of what happens when you get injured. You go from QB1 to QB2 without a second thought. The last thing they want to do is align with the guy they think is on the way out when they might be able to hang their star on the flashy rookie predicted to break records.
Coach Brooks is in the middle of the field, clipboard tucked under one arm, a whistle hanging around his neck, and an entourage of other coaches, gofers, and statisticians all around him. He spots me and gives me a short nod that says the niceties from earlier are gone. Now, he’s all business.
That nod says, “Show me what you can do, Hale.”
Fine.
I can do that.
I head toward the quarterback station, and of course, Cole is already there.
He’s in full gear like it’s game day, chin lifted, and tossing the ball with that casual, arrogant flick that makes coaches drool. He laughs at something one of the receivers says, and the sound carries over to me. It’s too loud, too sure of himself, like he’s already putting on a show.
No wonder the laugh doesn’t stop when his eyes land on me.
But it does change. It becomes directed more at me. Is everything with this kid a performance?
“Look who decided to join us,” Cole calls, spinning the ball on his finger before palming it.
I don’t break stride. “Practice already started?”
He grins. “An hour ago. For some of us, at least.”
That some of us is his subtle dig at him being first string—the A team. The starters.
But there’s that immaturity again. There’s him trying to carve out his territory with words because he doesn’t know what else to do with me yet.
I stop a few feet away, close enough that he can’t pretend I’m not there, but not so close it looks like I’m rising to the bait.
“Relax,” I say. “You keep stressing when I’m around, your hair gel is going to sweat off and burn your eyes.” A couple guys snicker. “I mean, I appreciate you trying to look good for me and all, but seeing where you’re throwing is more important.”
Cole’s smile tightens. Two can play this game, Rookie.
He steps toward me, still holding the ball like a crown he can’t wait to strut around in. “Coach said I’m taking first reps.”
Spoken just like a middle schooler wanting everyone to know he’s the best.
“Coach also said you’re QB1.” I shrug. “As you were before I got here. First reps come with that job.”
He leans in a fraction, eyes bright with challenge. “And you’re what? QB2? QB3? An inspirational quote poster come to life?”
I stare at him, my smile a slow, easy crawl over my lips. Unimpressed. Not antagonized.
“Careful,” I say quietly. “Keep running that mouth of yours, and your center’s going to start snapping the ball late on purpose.”
His jaw ticks as the other rookies nearby narrow their eyes in question.
I can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether to laugh the comment off or to take a swing at me.
I lift my chin to him as an invite.
Don’t take the bait, Valor. Be bigger than that.
After a few tense seconds, he makes the wise choice and just laughs. Its sound is hollow, but at least it’s a laugh. At least he reined it in.
“Good luck with that,” he mutters, turning away like he won.
He didn’t. Not even close.
And if that’s how this is going to be, it’s going to be a long fucking season.
Funny thing is that men like him are always noise first, substance second. I know that for a fact because I used to be him.
I just had more talent than fear back then.
Now? I have both.
Coach blows his whistle. “Quarterbacks. Finish your warm-ups and then we run install,” he says referring to the process of teaching players the team’s playbook—formations, schemes, individual plays—new and existing.
“Valor, you’re up. Hale—” He pauses like saying my name means he’ll have to decide where to put me.
“Hale, take reps with second unit for now. That’ll help you learn the offense. Be ready to jump in here.”
Be ready.
Mentor. Second unit. No spotlight.
I know where my place is, Coach. I don’t say the words. Instead, I just nod and say, “Got it.”
Cole looks at me over his shoulder like that’s proof that he’s already won.
Arrogant prick.
I’ve been around long enough to know that winning early means nothing if you don’t win when it counts.
Second string is far from glamorous, and, truth be told, it’s the first time in a long-ass time that I’m on it.
I step into the huddle with a handful of younger guys. For a second, I think back to when I was this young and hungry, looking at every snap as a proving ground and a moment where I could make a name for myself.
My feet were quick, my arm was strong, and even with an instinct for the game, I thought I was untouchable. High school and college proved that to me.
But those two had nothing on the National Football League. How hard the hits were. How savvy the other players were. How we were on a way more equal talent level than the disparity I faced in college.
My first year was a brutal lesson in the fact that talent alone wasn’t enough.
Saying I became obsessed with the game is an understatement.
I studied film endlessly and refined mechanics with coaches long after the rest of my teammates hit the locker room.
I taught myself to read the defense within seconds and mapped out all scenarios in my head so I could anticipate possibilities.
I learned when to take risks and when not to.
I made so many mistakes that first year, but fuck if I didn’t learn from every single one.
I willed myself to become the offensive anchor. To be the guy my team looked toward and counted on when the seconds were ticking down with the game on the line. And in time, my stats became noticeable—pass completion percentage, touchdown to interception ratio, passing yards per game.
I became the player I knew I could be with game-winning drives and championship runs.
I was the franchise player analysts lauded their praise on and teams wanted on their roster.
The talented quarterback whose worth was recognized not only for his rings and winning record, but also because of his resilience, adaptability, leadership, and the ability to perform under pressure.
Season after season.
And that’s why the Rebels wanted me. Want me. And what I hope to deliver.
“Let us have it, Hale,” Mason Ellerby, the center, says, looking around the circle of guys. “What’re we running?”
I glance at my wristband complete with the play list I’ve committed to memory, but still need refreshers on, and roll my shoulder out of habit. “Trips right. Slant-flat concept. Quick release.”
Mason lifts his eyebrows as someone else whistles. “You know it already.” It’s not a question, but more of a statement.
“I read,” I deadpan.
A couple guys laugh, easing the tension. Good. I prefer this atmosphere with my teammates—relaxed, focused, real.
We break the huddle. I clap my hands once, take the snap, and the world narrows to movement and timing and the one thing I’ve always understood better than anyone else.
Football.
I scramble back and my mind does several things all at once—it scans the field for my receiver while correcting the bad grip I got off the snap, and it surveys how well my line is holding in front of me.
It’s a mind-boggling assessment made in a matter of seconds, but when everything lines up like it does right now, it’s a goddamn beautiful thing.
The ball leaves my hand on instinct, a clean spiral with perfect angle and height that whistles into the receiver’s hands like it never left mine.
For half a second, my body forgets its broken. I’m not thirty-four with a reconstructed shoulder and a whole league thinking my time is past. I’m just a quarterback reveling in the fact that I still have pinpoint precision and perfect timing.
Then the burn hits. Deep. Hard. Like a live wire wrapped around the joint.
My fingers tighten but I keep my face absolutely blank.
No one sees. No one gets to.
This is just how it is now.
Coach yells something across the field to the other squad. I glance just in time to see the missile that Cole throws down the field being caught. The players, first string, on the field with him all cheer and clap at the reception.