CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Lucas
The first thing I notice is how wrong it feels to be on this side of the clipboard.
No helmet.
No shoulder pads.
No tape wrapped too tight around joints that ache before they’ve even been tested.
My sling is gone now, replaced with cautious movement and a low-grade awareness of shoulder pain. I’m cleared to be here. To walk. To stand. To coach.
Just not to play. There’s a small hole in my soul over that—it’ll always be there—yet being here gives me purpose.
The field stretches out in front of me, green and familiar. It’s almost cruel how it doesn’t look any different from when I was running on it. Guys jog past, cleats crunching against turf, voices carrying through the morning air.
Assistant offensive coordinator.
The title still feels strange in my head.
“You ready?” Peter asks, glancing over at me.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Am I? I don’t know.
Practice starts like it always does. Reps. Timing. Cadence. Cole takes snaps, calling plays cleanly, confident in the pocket. I watch without meaning to dissect everything—coverage disguises, safety depth, the way a linebacker shades just half a step too far inside.
It’s instinct. Muscle memory without the muscle.
On the third rep, Cole hesitates.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
“Throw it,” I mutter under my breath, hand twitching like I’m about to step in and take the snap myself.
The urge is sharp. Automatic. Familiar.
Instead, I step forward and point. “Hold the safety with your eyes. Slot’s late breaking—he’ll clear if you don’t rush it.”
Cole looks back at me, nods once, and lines up again.
The ball snaps.
He waits. Just half a beat longer.
The slot opens.
Completion.
The offense resets, a few guys slapping Cole on the helmet as they jog back to the huddle.
Cole jogs over to the sideline, breath steady, eyes bright. “You see that shit so fast,” he says, shaking his head. “Faster than anyone I’ve ever played with before.”
I swallow. I do, and it’s why they’ve kept me as a coach. “You did the work.”
“Yeah,” he says, smirking. “But you called it.”
He heads back out, and I stay where I am, staring at the field like it’s just revealed what I wasn’t ready to admit yet.
I didn’t lose the game. I just changed how I get to be a part of it.
The realization doesn’t fix everything, and it doesn’t make the grief disappear or erase the phantom itch in my throwing arm when a play breaks down just right.
But it fills the emptiness in my chest.
This still matters. I still matter here.
Practice winds down. The field clears. The noise fades.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at my brother’s name on the screen for a second longer than necessary before typing.
LUCAS: You were right. I’m okay.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Then I tuck the phone away, lift my clipboard, and turn back toward the field—toward what comes next.
Not spiraling.
Not broken.
Just different.
And finally—ready.