CHAPTER NINE #2
I take the next snap. Throw the ball. Pain radiates. I swallow it. Again.
The reps stack one after another. Sweat runs down my forehead and stings my eyes. The sun climbs higher and while my shoulder starts to feel like someone replaced it with broken glass, I welcome it.
Pain means I’m still here.
If the Rebels want to stick me in the corner as the steady, old hand, then fine. I’ll be steady. I’ll stay on the periphery of the spotlight.
And then when the moment comes, when they need something only I can do, I’ll take my place under that bright light.
It only takes one play to get a whole stadium and fanbase on your side.
The practice continues on. Our second-string squad rotates stations to run footwork drills, read progression, and learn timing routes.
Cole keeps glancing over like he expects me to fall apart. Like he wants to catch and revel in the exact second I crack.
Instead, I give him clean reps with tight spirals and sharp reads on my available receivers. I show him my calm command of the huddle that makes even the rookies stand a little straighter.
None of my actions are loud or flashy per se, because they don’t have to be.
That’s the thing about experience. It doesn’t announce itself . . . it just is.
And by the time we hit 7-on-7 drills, I’m hurting. I hide it. Or at least I think I do until Mason jogs up beside me during a water break.
“This is a lot for your first day here,” he says quietly. “You good?”
“Never better.”
He gives me a look that says he knows it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t press.
I respect that.
Coach blows his whistle again. “Hale. Jump in next series with first squad.”
Cole’s head snaps up. He jogs over, eyes flashing concern. “I’m good to go more, Coach. My unit’s used to me throwing to them.”
Coach doesn’t even give him a glance. “I’m well aware. They also need to be good with other people throwing to them.”
Cole opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a strangled sound.
Coach turns to look at him. “Part of being a leader, Valor, is wanting everyone around you to be just as good as you are. Surround yourself with success. You want the keys to the team to stay in your hands, then act like you deserve them.” He motions to the field.
“Hale, get in there and take your snaps.”
Cole’s nostrils flare and he turns on his heel to walk off.
“Valor. Stay here and watch. You just might learn something,” Coach says.
For the first time all day, I get a tiny, vicious amount of satisfaction. Not because I want his job, but because I want him to understand that this isn’t handed to anyone, and it sure as shit can be taken away in a heartbeat.
Even if you’re the golden boy.
I step into the huddle with first string and everything shifts. The linemen listen differently. The receivers lean in. Everyone perks up like they smell blood in the water.
Cole stands off to the side, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight, and expression seething.
In time, he’ll learn that this is good for his development and even better for putting his ego in check. Like you were more mature at his age, Hale.
I call the play, break the huddle, and line up.
The ball’s snapped, so I scan the field and release a perfect throw. The pain slices through me so sharply my vision blurs for half a beat, but I recover fast, just like I have all day.
The receiver celebrates, the defense curses, and the coaches scribble notes. And I walk back to the huddle like nothing happened while the coaches pull the receivers aside for some instruction.
I almost get away with it. Almost.
Then I feel it. That sensation you get when you’re being scrutinized.
I turn slightly, eyes sweeping the sideline, and there she is. Emery Porter.
She’s standing near the medical staff with her tablet in hand. Her ponytail is pulled tight and her sunglasses are pushed up on her head like she forgot they were there.
For a brief moment, I forget where we are and what I’m doing and take in the sight of her.
Pure, athletic femininity amid all this brute masculinity.
She stands confident in a way I rarely see in this realm where women try to be too assertive, too all-knowing simply to be taken seriously.
Emery though, stands there with poise like she has a knowledge that only she can impart or help with.
And quiet confidence is sexy as all hell.
My assessment lasts a whole thirty seconds before her gaze lands on my right arm, and then her expression completely changes. Not dramatically, but just enough. Her eyes narrow and her mouth tightens, like she just caught me doing exactly what she accused me of earlier—lying.
I stare at her until her eyes meet my gaze. We stand like this as I dare her to call me out from the sideline.
But she doesn’t. She simply tilts her head—one small, infuriating motion that says I saw that—and then looks down as she taps something on her tablet. When she looks back up, it’s her whose eyes are challenging now. Tell me the truth, they say.
I look away because the way my shoulder throbs right now, if I don’t, I might do something reckless.
Like admit to her that she’s right.
Or maybe even admit it to myself.