CHAPTER TEN #2
Grant clicks a remote. The lights go down and the screen behind him illuminates.
LONE STAR REBELS—YEAR TWO
Beneath it, numbers scroll. Budgets. Attendance projections. Media exposure. Sponsorship retention.
All projections that are probably more precarious than not.
“We were given a two-year runway,” Grant says. “One to build—that was last year—and now one to prove we belong in this league. That’s not a lot of time for any giant to be fed and then learn to thrive, but we’ll meet the challenge.”
“Why the ridiculous parameters?” a man with a sun visor low on his forehead asks.
“Because the league has had a few bad years of PR with some significant injuries on the field—and on camera. Yes, this is America’s pastime and sport, but it’s also now under scrutiny for so many other reasons.
They want something to be able to overshadow some of that negative press, and one of those things is the unprecedented success of the new Lone Star Rebels and the Washington Grizzlies
“That’s still ridiculous. What’s their definition of success?” a man standing against the wall asks. He’s red from the sun, and he has white sunscreen not completely blended on his ears.
“A breakout star? A break-even record? It’s as ambiguous as that.
” Grant shrugs. “We’ve brought in an incredible social media team to help market us to the public.
We’ve done ‘collabs’ with celebrities and influencers to get our gear trending.
We’re trying to make this a whole experience so that people root for and want to represent us regardless. ”
The majority of the room nods their heads.
“And if we aren’t deemed a success by year end?” Coach asks, and I’m not sure if he knows the answer and is asking because no one else will, or if he genuinely doesn’t know.
“If we’re not, then the league has the authority to relocate us. Or fold us.”
The words land heavy. No one speaks as they digest his words.
“I doubt it,” someone scoffs on the far end of the room. “That’s a shit ton of money for the league to invest in us to then blow us off that quickly.”
“While I agree with that assessment,” Grant says, “I have to go off what we’ve been told—scare tactic or not.”
There are a few murmured agreements and questions.
My gaze drifts to the field out the window where the guys stand now, helmets off, laughing in a circle. My eyes shouldn’t focus on Lucas, but they do because he looks like the polar opposite of what he did in my office earlier. He seems relaxed, laid-back, and confident.
His grin is wide and there’s something about him like this—crinkles at his eyes, skin tanned, a stain of sweat down his shirt, the avid attention of those around him—that screams all-American boy next door.
I stare longer than I should. He’s clearly not doing anything physical that I should be assessing, and yet it takes Grant’s voice at the front of the room to pull me back to where my focus should be—the meeting.
“We don’t have the luxury to get bad press or slow starts. Every injury. Every rumor. Every damn headline matters.” His eyes sweep around the table and meet squarely with mine. “Especially medically.”
I straighten slightly. “Understood.”
“We’re already under scrutiny,” he says. “Expansion teams don’t get patience. And they don’t get second chances.”
Coach nods. “Which means we need to know when a player can’t perform.”
“And when they shouldn’t, despite what they say,” another person farther down the table says.
How I hope I can learn all their names soon . . .
Grant’s gaze remains steady. “Your reports will be critical, Dr. Porter.”
Not Emery.
Dr. Porter.
Formal. Intentional.
God, it feels good to be acknowledged professionally right off the bat.
“As you would expect, your reports, along with Owen’s, will influence lineup decisions, contracts, media messaging, and yes, careers,” Grant finishes.
My pulse ticks up a notch. “I report facts,” I say evenly.
“Range of motion. Strength. Recovery trajectory. Risk. My objective is to form a relationship with the players under my care and get them to trust me so I can help them get out on the field faster. And yes, that is always a priority, but I’m also well aware that beyond my expertise in helping a player get game ready, my loyalty is to this team and its overall success. ”
Grant lifts his chin some. “Good, because we need objectivity.”
Objective. A clean word. A dangerous one.
“Lucas Hale,” Coach says. The name hangs in the air.
His profile appears on the screen. Age. Injury history. Contract details including incentive. It’s basically a countdown disguised as data.
“He’s a risk,” one coordinator says.
“He’s also a draw,” the guy with sunscreen says. “Fans know his name. Some will follow him here simply because they liked him when he played for the Cougars.”
“True, but they’ll also jump off his bandwagon if he goes down again,” Grant says. “He’s a valuable asset for many reasons, but Lucas’s role here is very clear. He’s here to lead Cole Valor.”
A few heads nod around the table.
“To mentor him,” Coach says. “Round out some of his rougher edges and help him navigate the league without burning bridges or himself down in the process. Maybe teach him how to be a good PR asset as well.”
Grant folds his arms. “Valor has talent, but talent without discipline or humility gets you injured, benched, or both. Hale’s job is to steady him. Teach him how to survive this league. Temper some of his ego.”
I lean forward slightly, fingers pressing into the edge of the table, trying to understand what I’m hearing. “So, I’m supposed to rehab and ready a quarterback who you have no intention of ever stepping foot on the field in a game?”
Silence settles in the room. Grant exhales slowly, like he’s already made peace with the decision. “He might.”
Coach nods, just once. “That’s not the plan though.”
Something cold settles in my chest. I glance back toward the glass wall, toward the practice field that’s empty now, and subtly shake my head.
“Does he know that?” I ask.
My question is met with another pause before Grant fills the silence. “Some of it.”
“And he still took the contract?” I continue.
“He did.” Grant meets my gaze with a cocked head and questions in his eyes.
“He came here under no pretenses. He’s not guaranteed a spot on the final fifty-three-man roster but knows his experience is invaluable to us.
The man’s a throwback player whose love for the game is both his strength and his weakness.
Even if he never takes the field, his love for the game will drive him to train hard and lead where he can. Other players will follow his example.”
“Hale thinks he’ll play or he wouldn’t be here,” a voice from down the table, one of the coordinators, pipes in. “He thinks he’ll prove the naysayers wrong, and despite his injury, he’ll strive for first string and the QB1 spot because that’s all he’s ever known.”
I exhale a long breath before I can stop myself.
First string? Daily reps and the intensity of a live game with defenders out to sack him? Regular recovery protocol for a shoulder says it’s possible this far post-op. But it could also be catastrophic if he pushes hard the way I watched him push hard earlier out on the field.
And that’s what they’re asking me to decide for them.
“So, you’ll exploit his love and dedication for the game to the team’s advantage,” I say before I can stop myself.
Shit. Probably not the best thing to say on day one.
No one comments right away, but I feel the room shift. The acknowledgment that what Owen and I are holding isn’t just medical data. It’s leverage.
“As any good team wanting to compete would,” Grant says unapologetically.
Coach clears his throat. “Regardless, we need expert eyes on him.” His gaze lands squarely on me.
“Our initial plan is to roster him as our QB2, but that assumption is being made off his old doctor’s references and Lucas’s assurances.
They both say he’s ready to play—full return to action.
And we’re ready to go with that assessment and let him play without restrictions.
The man is talented and would not only be a steal contractually if that’s the case, but also a boost to team leadership.
That’s why we’re depending on you to help him further his rehabilitation.
But at the same time, if you see a decline in his shoulder, you report it. Immediately.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“No protecting him. No optimism,” Coach adds.
I almost smile. “I don’t operate on optimism,” I say. “I operate on evidence.”
“Well, if his performance drops because of injury, we need to know it before it costs us games,” Grant says.
But if you don’t plan on him playing, then he won’t cost you anything. Does anyone else hear him contradicting himself?
“I always document everything,” I say.
“Good.” Grant nods then says quietly, “This team has one season to prove it deserves to exist. We can’t take any chances.”
The weight of that settles, and not just for the franchise’s sake. But for Lucas’s too.
And I can’t shake the feeling as we touch briefly on the other athletes who are under my care. There are questions and concerns but not as outright obvious as their vested interest in Lucas.
He matters more than they’re letting on. Good for him. More pressure on me.
The rest of the meeting is efficiency and information, most of which don’t pertain to me or my position here, but it’s good to hear so I can get an overall gist of the machine running the organization.
After an hour and with people noticeably getting restless, the meeting adjourns with scraping chairs and murmured conversations. People file out, already pivoting into strategy and metrics.
I remain seated, staring at the empty room and the slide on my tablet that highlights Lucas’s statistics.
This isn’t just rehab for him like I was initially told.
This is survival.
Mine. His. The Rebels.
My tablet vibrates as a few emails hit from other departments. I close its cover and stand, resolve locking into place.
Lucas Hale doesn’t know it yet, but I’m not just the person overseeing his rehab. I’m also his voice in meetings like this, where they’re discussing his future.
I can help him. I can end his season early—and possibly his career.
That’s a heavy realization. But none more so than the fact that if he keeps lying to me about his injury—if he keeps taking my ability to help him away from me—then the consequences won’t be mine to bear.
I won’t be able to return the favor and save the man who saved me.
With a sigh, I gather my things and leave the conference room just behind the rest of them. Within minutes, I’ve collected my things and prepare myself for the next new task of the day—moving into my new place.
The heat suffocates me when I step out into the parking lot despite the late afternoon sun in the sky. My head still aches faintly, a reminder that I haven’t fully shaken off last night no matter how hard I pretend otherwise.
I pause beside my car and draw in a steadying breath. Somewhere inside the facility, Lucas Hale is icing his shoulder, planning his next move and convincing himself he is fine.
And somewhere deep in my chest, the memory of him standing in a hotel doorway at dawn—concern written across his face like he didn’t know how to look away—refuses to fade.