CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lucas
The snap comes clean.
I take three steps back, scan left, then right, and fire the ball on instinct. It leaves my hand sharp and fast, spiraling exactly where I want it.
The hit comes before I can see it. It’s low, late, and rattles my teeth seconds before I make impact with the ground right on my shoulder. Fuck, that hurt. Hot and searing, like a nerve catching wrong. I roll through it, pop back up and jog toward the huddle like nothing happened.
“Late hit, Desmon,” I tell the linebacker who clipped me.
He smirks. “Nah. You’re just getting soft, old man.”
I grin like it doesn’t bother me. It does.
The next play breaks down fast. The protection around me collapses and rather than throw the ball, I hand it off to a running back to gain four yards.
I don’t look to the sideline. I refuse to acknowledge that I changed the play on my own from passing to running to give my shoulder another few seconds to recover.
The ache creeps down my arm, settling somewhere between my shoulder and elbow. I shake it out between snaps and flex my fingers.
A nerve. It has to be a nerve.
Not tissue. Not tendons. It can’t be that.
Another play. Another rushing pattern that comes up short, forcing the special teams to change out with us so they can punt.
You’re fine. It’s just from the hit.
I jog off the field, adrenaline still buzzing, but I know that if it hurts like this now, when that adrenaline wears off, I’m well and truly fucked.
I slap a few teammates hands with my left hand and take a seat on the bench, keeping my eyes down. I don’t look toward the medical staff. I don’t look anywhere near Emery. I know exactly where she is, but the last thing I want is her to see anything on my face that gives me away.
The game stays tight.
Too tight.
Coach threw the third-string quarterback in to give him some reps before the roster is finalized. While I understand it, I’d rather it be me who goes in.
“Christ,” Peter, the offensive coordinator, shouts as our offense gets clobbered yet again.
Next play, I watch the defense cheat toward the boundary, watch the safeties creep down a step too far. The next series confirms it—they’re overplaying the slant and daring us to go inside.
We don’t.
We keep forcing it, losing the yardage we’ve gained.
On the third down, I stand and walk toward our offensive coordinator. My heart races for some odd reason as if my opinion, my observation, might not be welcome.
“They’re shading outside,” I say. “I’ve played for their coordinator before and know how he thinks. The linebackers are biting hard on the fake. Run a delayed cross off the play action. The slot’s wide open if the safety falls for it and bites.”
Peter studies the field for a beat as if he’s watching it all play out in his head. He nods. “Let’s try it.”
The call goes in.
The snap.
The fake.
The safety buys it. Our quarterback throws a perfect spiral right into a pair of hands in the end zone.
Touchdown.
The stadium falls silent, their team down by six and only a minute left on the clock. For a moment, everything else disappears for me—the ache, the worry, the noise in my head—and I allow myself to own the success of seeing that play ahead of time. I clap once, satisfied and pumped.
We win by six, thank fuck. We deserved that victory.
After the whistle, I head to the locker room, sit on the bench before my locker with my elbows on my knees and my helmet resting between my hands.
It felt good out there. Not just my shoulder—which is a victory in and of itself—but the team gelled.
The offense was strong and read the plays right.
The defense was dynamic and stopped them in their tracks.
Hopefully, the coaches see what I saw: a team finally coming together; a group of players striving for each other as much as themselves—even knowing over thirty of them will be cut shortly.
Oof. That thought hits hard. I may feel good about my performance, but was it what the coaches wanted? And if so, what hits with even more poignancy is, is this my last preseason? Will I get the chance to go through this tumultuous and kick-ass cycle again?
I blow out a breath and hate the feeling that nags just under my breastbone every time I take the field now.
Because, what will my life be like after football?
What do I want? Travel? Yes. But walking completely away from this game?
I don’t think that’s possible. And the new one that keeps circling is, do I want to be alone when I face the rest of my life?
Also, no. But for the first time, I have someone who makes that question all the more important.
Someone I could see myself with and who would definitely ease that transition.
Why are you thinking about this now, Hale? You’ve got time.
Closing my eyes for a beat, I let the thoughts fade and the noise wash over me—our players congratulating one another. The slaps on backs. The thud of pads being dropped. The music. The laughter. The sound of cleats on the rubber floor.
Coach sits down beside me.
“Hell of a call on that play,” he says. “First time all game we were able to beat their defense when it formed like that.”
“Thanks.”
“You ever think of being a coach someday?”
I huff out a laugh. “Let’s hope that day’s a long way off.”
He chuckles. “We all say that, but you should consider it. You’re good with seeing the whole picture, making quick decisions, and knowing if your team is or isn’t capable of pulling off a play.
That’s not an easy thing to do but from what I’ve seen, it comes naturally to you.
Not all players can be coaches, but I have a feeling you would be great at it. ”
He stands, then pauses, hand resting briefly on my bad shoulder. I don’t flinch when he squeezes gently. Not visibly anyway.
“I heard what you did for Cole. If it weren’t for you getting him out of there, I’m pretty sure the media blowback would have been much worse. I appreciate the way you’ve handled him and tried to take him under your wing. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
I nod. “That’s what was needed in the moment.”
“Agreed. But not everyone would have stepped in.” He looks around the room and smiles before meeting my eyes again, choosing his words carefully when he speaks. “We’re still finalizing the roster.”
My stomach tightens. “Meaning?”
“It means experience matters. Leadership matters. You’ve shown us how you bring both to the table.”
A cautious relief hits me so hard I can barely breathe.
He gives my shoulder a pat. “Good work out there.”
And when he walks away, I sit there a moment longer, breathing it all in.
The game.
The team.
The role I’m growing into.
You’ve shown us how you bring both to the table.
I didn’t know until now how much I needed to hear that.