CHAPTER SIXTY
Lucas
The sling bites into the strap around my neck. You’d think that from the number of times I’ve had to wear one in my life while my shoulder is healing, I’d have a built-up tolerance, but no.
It’s like my body prefers to give me a constant reminder that my shoulder is fucked. That the weight pulling down on it is so much more than an injury just repaired but is now a new life I need to figure out how to navigate.
The Lone Star practice facility looks the same as it did months ago when I first walked in here but feels very different. Back then it was a beacon of opportunity. Now it’s a reflection looking back at me that I can’t avoid or escape.
When I push open the doors and head down the hall, the place hums the way it always does—voices talking and bodies moving with purpose. But the second I turn down the second to final hallway outside the meeting rooms, something feels off.
Too quiet.
Then someone claps.
Once.
Twice.
Seconds before I turn into the final hallway, the quiet erupts with applause and celebratory sounds.
And then, there they are. Guys line both sides of the space—linemen, receivers, defensive backs, special teams—faces split into grins, hands raised, voices loud and unapologetic.
“Let’s go, Hale!”
“Legendary!”
“Thanks for your leadership!”
I blink, stunned, as someone fist bumps me, and the next one high-fives me.
What the hell is this?
I didn’t ask for this, and I didn’t know this was coming. And probably wouldn’t have come in for the meeting this morning if I knew this was what awaited me.
A celebration for my demise?
But the farther I walk down the hall, the more the emotions creep up. The more they take over. The more they fucking own me.
These guys only had a couple of months with me, but this is how they react? This is how they show me appreciation for whatever they felt I brought to the table?
Emotion clogs in my throat, and I blink away tears.
It’s the pain pills making me emotional. Has to be.
I clear my throat and try to push away the warring emotions, but I fail when Cole steps forward.
He waits until I reach him, then grips my left hand, firm and steady.
“I know right now you’re all over the place with what happened”—his eyes veer toward my shoulder and the sling holding it immobile—“but just know that this isn’t the last time we work together,” he says quietly, eyes locked on mine.
I frown. “What?”
He just smiles. Small. Knowing. And steps aside.
I don’t get it. I don’t have the energy to ask. I’m embarrassed over how emotional I am. Over how ridiculous I probably look. But before I can do or say or react further, the door to the conference room opens, and Coach glances out at everyone before meeting my eyes and motioning for me to come in.
When I enter, Emery’s there, as I knew she’d be. There’s Coach, of course. Grant. A few other members from the front office. Two PT staffers. Peter. It feels . . . formal. Heavy. Like something irreversible is about to happen.
Maybe more like inevitable.
I take a seat. I’m not ready for this. I’m just not ready.
My shoulder throbs. My chest hurts more.
I think of this morning—Emery helping me shower because my arm must remain immobile. Her fingers gentle in my hair as she washed it for me. The way she didn’t rush. Didn’t speak unless I did.
She knew how hard this was going to be for me today. It’s one thing to know in your head your career is over, it’s another thing to have the team sit you down and let you go.
Yeah, it’s a fucking formality, but it’s also a brutal truth I can’t run from anymore.
Emery has let me be with my own thoughts. She hasn’t asked how I’m feeling. She hasn’t pushed me to talk about where my head is at. She’s allowed me to ignore everything I want to without judging me for it.
I look up.
She’s looking at me. Her eyes are wrecked. Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Braced for something she doesn’t want to say.
That’s when it hits me. She’s supposed to do this. She’s the one with the official diagnosis that my shoulder isn’t reparable and my career is over.
I’ve been so busy in my own head, in my own misery, that I never once thought about how this was weighing on her.
She’s been giving me time to process and evaluate while stressing about her proposal that’s due on Friday and the fact that she has to end it for me.
Fucking hell.
That’s not fair.
Not her. I can’t let her own any more guilt over something she’s not responsible for. Over something I’m too chickenshit to say myself.
I straighten my shoulders and for the first time in weeks, face the reality that is only mine to own.
“Morning all,” I say, my voice steady even though my heart is splintering. “Before this goes any further—I’d like to say something.”
The room stills.
I glance at Emery once more. Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to stop me.
I don’t let her.
“I appreciate the opportunity this organization gave me,” I continue.
“The second chance. The trust. The belief.” I swallow over what feels like broken glass.
“It’s been a hell of a run. A career I’m proud of.
A career my body will no longer allow me to play.
And due to that, I will be medically retiring.
” The words feel foreign. Heavy. Final. “And truth be told, that’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to say.
To tell you I’m walking away from a game that I love with everything I have, that has given me a life I never imagined .
. . but it’s not fair to you or the team to not deliver on all the promises I made you.
I’m sorry for that.” My voice breaks but it’s got nothing on my heart.
My words are met with a resigned silence—the kind where we all knew this was coming, but it’s more fucking brutal hearing it.
I’m gutted in a way I’ve never known or comprehended before.
Coach stands first. He rounds the table and grips my good shoulder carefully. “Hell of a career, son.”
Grant follows. Then Peter. Then the PT staff.
Each one says something kind. Something earned. Something that makes my chest swell.
I keep my gaze down as I blink away tears.
I expect the room to clear. For each of them to walk out and go on about their day, but when my eyes stop blurring, I notice that no one has left.
Grant clears his throat to get my attention, so I look up and meet his eyes.
“We understand your decision,” he says, as if I have a choice whether I can play again. But I appreciate him letting me feel like it was a choice. “And we respect it.” He pauses. “But that’s not the end of this conversation.”
My head startles. “What?”
He leans forward, hands clasped. “Your value is more than just your physical ability to play, Lucas. The coaching staff has been talking, and we agree that you’re too goddamn good at this sport to walk away from it completely.”
My pulse stutters. “My shoulder’s shot. While I appreciate your praise, it’s not going to—”
“We’d like you to stay with the organization,” Coach adds. “You have incredible insight and ability to read the field. We realize this might not be what you want, but . . .”
“We’d like to offer you a position as an assistant offensive coordinator.” Grant smiles.
The room tilts.
“That’s—” I shake my head. “That’s not—”
“Not player money,” Coach cuts in. “Not even close.” That most definitely was not what I was going to say in my stunned disbelief. “But this opportunity keeps you in this game you know and love. And it matters.”
“You’ve proven yourself time and again,” Peter says. “Your reads. Your instincts. That doesn’t disappear just because your shoulder gave out.”
“Plus, the guys listen to you,” Grant adds. “They respect you.” He sighs dramatically. “Even Cole Valor.”
Chuckles come from all those in the room.
“And Doc here says your shoulder can handle that,” Coach jokes with a grin.
The whole room laughs again.
My chest burns.
They want me to stay on.
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.
They want me to remain a part of this team.
I glance at Emery.
She’s holding herself together with pure willpower—professional smile in place—but a silent tear slips down and over her cheek.
And suddenly I understand.
Football wasn’t the most important thing I’ve ever done.
She is.
Cole’s words from the hallway echo in my head.
This won’t be the last time.
I exhale. He also put in a good word for me. He’ll never admit it, but those words told me he did.
“Yes,” I say. The word comes out rough, but certain. “I’d love to stay on. I want to help make this team what I know it can be.”
Coach grins. “We’d be idiots to let you walk away completely.”
Grant nods. “We’ll get HR started on the transition. In the meantime, we have a meeting with the team in thirty. We’ll let them know of the changes and make it official.”
I chuckle, disbelief still buzzing through me. “You were that sure I’d say yes?”
Grant smiles. “You don’t stop being a leader just because you stop throwing the ball.”
I lean back in my chair, overwhelmed. I’m honestly shocked . . . and yet thankful, just as equally.
“But this opportunity keeps you in this game you know and love. And it matters.”
“You’ve proven yourself time and again. Your reads. Your instincts. That doesn’t disappear just because your shoulder gave out.”
This isn’t goodbye to an incredible career. It’s a pivot. And I’m here for it.
And as I meet Emery’s eyes across the table—love, pride, and relief tangle together—I realize something else too.
I’m the luckiest goddamn son of a bitch on the face of the earth.