CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Lucas
This game is a shitshow of epic proportions.
Regular season opener, and we’re being completely shut down. Every point we’ve scored has been a struggle to say the least. Cole’s doing his job just fine, but it’s like the Comets know every play we make before we run it.
Either they studied every offensive play Peter and the Rebels have ever made, or they have a direct line into our comms and are stealing them.
I’m thinking the former, but it doesn’t make the game any goddam easier.
Their defense is disguising looks well, shifting safeties late, and linebackers are cheating half a step before the snap.
We’re down by seven with three minutes left—a lifetime in football—and we have possession of the ball.
“Hale,” Coach shouts.
I jog over to him, helmet in hand, nowhere close to believing I’m going in with the game this close and Cole holding his own.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Get with Peter. Work whatever that fucking magic you have and help him figure some plays that will get us down the goddamn field.”
“I’m on it,” I say and move to stand beside Peter.
We spend the next few plays finessing things, and we’re able to make some progress and march down the field bit by bit.
“That’s a great call,” he says on our fourth play in the sequence that nets us fifteen yards.
“We used it when I was a rookie. Worked like a charm. It’s just a mix of these two,” I say pointing to two plays in his chart of plays. “Unconventional and unexpected.”
“They’ll blitz next. That’s their go-to when they line up like that.”
“No. They’re going to sell the blitz,” I say. “See how Grangier is lined up? They look like a blitz but are going to drop into the zone on third. Slot will open up if Cole has patience instead of forcing it.”
Peter relays my observation to Cole’s helmet. He glances over to the sidelines, meets my eyes, and nods.
They huddle. They break with a clap of their hands. The ball is snapped.
The pocket collapses fast, too fast, and the field does just what I said they were going to, but one of our linemen loses his footing and goes down—
Opening a direct line to nail Cole.
Cole tries to roll out of the pocket and away from the safety but doesn’t quite get there. The hit is clean but heavy, the kind that rattles more than hurts.
Cole goes down.
And stays down.
My stomach drops. No. Fuck.
He pushes himself up but immediately favors his ankle, hopping on it.
I’m moving on to the field and toward him before the whistle finishes blowing.
“Here,” I say, wrapping my arm around him and helping him hop off the field. “Take it slow. Just breathe through it.”
“I’m fine.” He hops a few times and tries to put weight on it. “Motherfucker. I planted wrong. Rolled my ankle.”
“I know,” I say as the trainers meet us and take my place.
“I’m going back in,” he growls to the trainers. “I’m fine.”
“Listen to me,” I say. “We need you strong. One hundred percent. Don’t be stubborn.” The trainers sit him down on the bench and start assessing. “It’s the first game, it’s almost over, and you don’t want to fuck up the rest of your season by injuring it more.”
Coach jogs over. “Cole, you’re done.”
Cole opens his mouth to argue, but I shake my head once and try to be the voice of reason. The motion is small and controlled, so is my voice when I speak. “Let them look at you. The team needs you for sixteen-plus more games more than it does for the next two minutes.”
Something eases in his expression. Trust, maybe? Or relief.
“Fine,” he finally says.
“Hale. Get your ass in there,” Coach says but I’m already snapping my helmet on and running onto the field.
My two minutes.
I’ll own every single second of them.
I take my snaps, take my time in the pocket, plant firmly, and make my throws—tight spirals, with great pace, on target. Almost effortless.
My shoulder doesn’t scream during the sequence. It doesn’t pinch. It doesn’t light up with that searing sensation I’ve had before and that Emery says will continue to get worse and worse. It feels good and it just . . . works. Like it has when it always matters.
I jog back to the huddle, pulse steady, breath even, and confidence settling into my bones.
There’s no way something that’s supposedly breaking down feels this good. No way my arm does and performs exactly what I ask of it if it’s deteriorating the way Emery says it is.
I’m not doubting that she sees it, but maybe she’s off on the timeline because fuck does it feel good right now.
“Hale? You good?” Hendricks asks, pulling me from my sidetrack.
“Never been better.” I look around at all the eyes looking at me as I hear the play in my helmet. “Guns trip right. 62-Y option. Break.”
We get into position and I take the snap, then drop back. I scan the field and count the routes like I always do as the pocket holds around me.
Branson is in my periphery making his run and I let the ball go—shoulders turning, wrist snapping, everything muscle memory has ever taught me.
He’s there. Open. Then the ball is in his hands.
He’s hit hard from the left side.
The ball knocks free from the impact, skidding across the grass and players on both teams scramble after it.
And the fucking Comets come up with it.
Shit.
The Comets let the clock run out. Game over.
I hang my head, hating the loss, but knowing I took advantage of the time I had.
“Great seeing you out here,” Santos, the Comet’s quarterback, says and shakes my hand.
“Great game,” I say and then jog off the field. My eyes find Emery as I do. Her
arms are crossed and her expression is unreadable.
I lift my shoulder, smirk, and roll it in a circle like it’s nothing.
“Feels good.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Something flashes across her face—too fast, too loaded—and then it’s gone.
But I don’t have time to look closer because the team is heading into the tunnel toward the locker rooms. There’s noise and music and guys grumbling about what they could’ve done better, but the second I sit down, it all dulls.
I flex my fingers. I rotate my shoulder. It still feels strong.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the floor.
“Fuck, man,” I say, leaning my head back against the wall behind me.
“You good, Hale?” a receiver asks.
“Yeah.” My smile is quick as I fist bump a few other players that walk by.
I close my eyes and just sit in the hum around me that I’ve thrived in my whole life.
This feeling is why this sport is addicting. Why my life is one, long addiction.
Just when I start to think I could walk away from the game and find a life, I’m punched in the face with just how good it feels to be here. To live this. To need this.
And all this talk about being okay with life after football vanishes.
Call me stubborn.
Call me stupid.
I’m not giving this up without one knock-down, drag-out fight.