Chapter 23
Jacob: Rough start, Rookie.
Jacob: Unfortunately, you’re playing me, so ??♂?
Jacob Miller’s off to the side, talking strategy with his coach, while I’m doing everything possible to keep my team in the game.
Bust Watch? Zach Evans Still Winless.
All Eyes on Evans as Raptors Sink to 0–2.
No. 1 Pick, No Wins: Is Zach Evans Overhyped?
I’ve seen them all.
Every headline. Every clip. Every idiot with a platform deciding that two weeks is enough to define a career.
Now, I just need a win to fucking shut them up.
I scan the defense, already knowing they’re going to give me any short pass I throw, acting like they don’t mind me taking a few yards at a time. They mind. They’re just burning the clock down, waiting for me to force through something bigger.
We’re down by three, on our third down with less than two minutes left of the clock. If we don’t convert here, then we’re gifting the game back to them.
I call the play, take the snap, and the pocket holds just long enough for me to pass it to Dax. He completes it at the twenty-two-yard line, and I’m already moving, rushing us back to the line before the clock can steal another second.
The crowd starts to cheer, but I tune it out. None of it matters. The noise, the stats. Not the fact that we’ve scored more than enough to secure a win only to walk off the field with nothing to show for it. The truth is, if I don’t finish this drive, we’re done.
I’m not letting this game go back into the defense’s hands. I’ve already seen how that ends.
“On two. Strong left, trips right. Dax, you’re the check.”
“Obviously,” Dax says.
“I say it for everyone else’s benefit.”
“Love you, Evans,” he says, blowing a kiss in my direction.
“Run your route.” I point ahead.
Before we break, I glance toward the sideline and see Coach Masters in Owen’s face, pre-emptively laying into him. He just stands there, taking it, and I grit my teeth before looking back at the formation.
The only thing I can do right now to help Owen is get some more fucking points on the board.
I call the snap count, and when the ball hits my hand, I look up, already knowing I don’t have as much time as I need. A defender comes flying off the edge, fast enough that I don’t have a second to process it properly.
I glance at Reese on the sideline and get the ball out just before he reaches me—
Thwack!
All the air leaves my lungs in a sharp grunt as my helmet snaps back, and I go down hard.
The impact rattles through my pads and into my bones.
For a second, everything blurs together—the noise, the lights, the feeling of the ground beneath me—and it takes me a second to focus on the blue sky above.
A pair of cleats comes into view beside me, and when I blink the haze away, I see Devin Walker standing there, looking down at me with his hand already extended.
“My bad,” he says. “You got the pass off right as I got there.”
“Good hit,” I grunt, still feeling the pain tingling through my bones.
I can confirm Devin is not a small guy.
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, brushing myself off like it didn’t just knock the breath out of me.
That’s when I feel it—a sharp ache in my wrist where I caught myself on the way down.
I shake it out once on instinct, then stop, forcing my arm still as I become aware of the cameras tracking me.
I don’t have to look up to know they’re there, and I definitely don’t need to see the headline they’ll turn it into.
Zach Evans Seen Nursing Wrist After Tough Week 3 Loss.
We haven’t lost yet, and my wrist is fine, so I roll my shoulder, flex my fingers and walk back to my team.
I feel a pull in my wrist, but it’s not enough to matter.
Not right now. I shove the feeling to the back of my mind and focus on the next play, because that’s all that matters until the clock hits zero.
The next drive stalls. We’re third and four, and I hold the ball for a beat too long, waiting for Dax to break open downfield. By the time I realize my mistake, it’s too late. The pocket collapses and I go down, costing us eight yards and the down.
All we’ve got left is a field goal.
Thankfully, we get it and leave the field with a tied game.
It’s all I can give the defense, but hopefully, it’s enough.
As I walk off, Jacob moves in from the other side of the field, calling something to his receivers. The guy’s got over half a decade of experience in this league, and I’m trying to combat that.
I catch Dax’s eye on the way to the sideline.
“I held it,” I say, before he can.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
That's all either of us needs to say about it.
I’m jogging in when Owen comes the other way with his helmet on and his focus locked in. His unit is about to go out and try to hold a tie game against Jacob Miller, who I have just personally watched complete seven of his last eight passes.
Owen watched it too, and the look on his face tells me everything.
I’ve seen it before.
It’s the same expression he had when I found him in the film room at six in the morning the day after our second loss, watching his losses on repeat.
I sat with him for an hour and didn’t say much.
The film said it all, and Owen's smart enough to know when someone's filling silence to make themselves feel useful.
So we just watched it. Play by play. All the things that didn't work, all the things that almost did, all the tiny incremental places where a different decision, a faster read, a better angle would have changed the outcome.
When I got up to leave, I told him the defense he had right now wasn't the defense he was going to have.
“You don't know that,” he said.
“No,” I said. “But I know you.”
Not exactly inspiring, but he came to practice the next day and was present, which is all you can ask from someone who's been taking the brunt of Coach Masters’ grilling’s the last few weeks.
We pass each other without stopping.
“You're good,” I say.
He doesn't answer, but his chin lifts.
That's enough.
“What a fucking shit show,” I mutter, leaning back against my locker and dragging a hand down my face.
0-3.
Never in my worst nightmares did I think I would start my NFL career this badly.
0-3. Fuck.
This is bad. Like Jamie level bad.
At least everyone else left immediately after the shambolic press conference, giving me time to sit here in silence and think about it all.
“Zach, at what point does this stop being a learning curve and start becoming a real concern?”
“You were known in college for staying composed. Tonight you looked visibly frustrated on the sideline. What was going through your head?”
“There are people comparing your start to some of the biggest rookie busts in recent years. Do you pay attention to that?”
The questions were brutal, and my answers were equally bad.
I couldn't help it. When I walked in to see Coach Masters laying into Owen again, I lost my shit.
Pushed Owen out of the way and told Coach exactly what I thought of his 'encouragement.
' Suffice it to say, Coach's response wasn't the best pep talk before a press conference I'd ever had.
I blow out a breath and stare at the locker room ceiling, replaying everything that went wrong today. It wasn’t just the defense this time; it was all of us.
Me included.
Overthrown passes... missed reads... a sack I should’ve avoided... Every mistake loops through my head like the world’s worst highlight reel while Coach Masters’ voice plays over the top of it.
“You wanna play hero so bad? Fine. Heroes get blamed when the team loses. Stop trying to save everybody. You can barely save your own fucking season.”
My jaw tightens because, deep down, I know he’s right. I can't save anybody at this point. Not even myself.
That’s what’s killing me the most.
I flex my hand inside the compression wrap I put on once everyone left and immediately regret it when pain shoots through my wrist.
Great.
Another thing I don’t want the media to ask me about, or the coaches, for that matter. Getting benched for a wrist injury would only add fuel to the fire. We'd lose everything if I wasn't there to help put some points on the board.
When my phone dings beside me, I immediately start to feel all that tension fade away. Why? Because that tone is only assigned to one person. The only person who can make tonight feel less crappy.
Honey.
She’s been texting me every now and again over the last few weeks, telling me about her day, or what she thinks about my games. It's not like it used to be between us because I hold myself back, but we're building back to something. I hope, at least.
The important thing is that I never start the conversation. It’s always her.
Honeycomb??: Are you still in the locker room?
Zach: Yup
Honeycomb??: Knew it. You always like to be alone when you’ve lost.
I lean back, opening my legs wider. I actually prefer to be inside you when I’ve lost, but this will have to do.
I've lost.
Is this rock bottom? Right now it feels like it. I'm losing any credibility with the NFL, and I lost her. The two most important things in my life.
Zach: I lost my third game in a row. That’s never happened to me before.
Honeycomb??: Shit happens. It’s not the apocalypse.
Zach: You sure? It feels pretty apocalyptic.
Honeycomb??: That’s because you’re a quarterback. You guys think everything is life or death.
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, rereading her messages. How can I be living through the worst night of my career and still be smiling? Because I’m talking to her.
Honeycomb??: A few bad games at the start of your first season doesn’t suddenly mean it’s the end.
Zach: My coach disagrees.
Honeycomb??: Maybe, but I don’t trust any man whose forehead vein is that prominent.
I bark out a laugh.
Honeycomb??: Sorry. I shouldn’t joke. I know it’s not actually funny.
Honeycomb??: But that vein is concerning. It looks like it's about to burst when he gets angry. I hope he gets it checked out.
Honey's a better person than me. Always hoping and wishing for people who don't deserve it. Tonight, I'm starting to feel like I'm one of them.
Zach: Tell me something good, Honeycomb. I don’t want to think about football right now. What are you up to?
A minute passes before she sends through a picture of a dorm room or an apartment.
I can’t really tell which. All I know is that I want to be there so badly it hurts.
The ridiculous number of pillows on her bed tells me it's her room, so I zoom in, searching for any clue over where she is in this country.
The books are too blurry to make out, there's a mug in the shape of a pumpkin, and some fairy lights hanging along the wall.
Nothing. There is absolutely nothing that would tell me where she is.
Honeycomb??: Finally settled into my new digs.
Zach: Looks cozy. I like the pillows.
Honeycomb??: You’re just saying that.
Zach: No, I’m not. Pillows on your bed bring back some very good memories.
I smirk, remembering how she used to toss those pillows on her dorm room floor to protect her knees before we-
Honeycomb??: You’re thinking of something inappropriate right now, aren’t you?
Zach typing.
I stop myself, thinking about what I should say versus what I want to say.
Fuck it.
After a 0-3 loss, I go for the latter. She’s mine. We both know it. I’m just waiting for her to come back.
Zach: Does thinking about stuffing your mouth with your wet panties while I rail you on your dorm floor count as inappropriate?
Send.
She types. Then it disappears. Types again. Disappears.
Honeycomb??: Zach.
Honeycomb??: You can’t say things like that.
There we have it. She's drawn the line, and on any other night it might not feel as devastating. Tonight, though, it feels like another punch in the gut.
Honey typing...
When I see the words, I sigh, knowing I'm about to get another lecture on not being so obsessive when it comes to her.
Honeycomb??: …but you always did like the floor.
Blink. Blink. Re-read the message. Blink again.
Fuck.
Did she just type that? I must be living in an alternate dimension because she hasn't said anything remotely flirty since I left.
This is... this is more than my football brain can handle.
Zach: Honeycomb...
Honeycomb??: What?
Zach: You’ve just made me incredibly hard in an empty locker room.
Honeycomb??: Well that's incredibly inconvenient.
I laugh quietly, shaking my head as I stare down at the picture she sent earlier. She’s somewhere out there curled in that room completely oblivious to how insane it's driving me that I have no idea where she is.
Zach: Where do you live? Might need to come and check that those pillows are soft enough.
Honeycomb??: ??
Honeycomb??: You’re not getting that out of me.
Zach: That’s okay. You’ll slip eventually.
Honeycomb??: You’re very patient for a quarterback.
Zach: I’m patient when something’s worth it.
Honeycomb??: And you think this is worth it?
I grin at the screen.
Zach: Honeycomb... you’ve always been worth it.
And just like that, a 0-3 loss doesn’t feel so bad.