Chapter 48 #2
I nod back. “Coach.”
A waitress appears with three waters like she’s been trained for exactly this kind of tense male standoff. Carter flashes her a smile that could get him free pie. She blushes, scribbles something on her pad, and disappears.
Carter leans back. “Okay. Fun part. Coach wants to talk to you.”
Coach Pierce’s gaze stays on me, calm and sharp. “I do.”
Carter adds, softer, “And before you say it—no, he’s not here to kidnap you in a black van. Yet.”
“Appreciate that,” I mutter, though my throat is tight.
Pierce’s mouth twitches like he might find Carter funny in another universe. “You are a hard man to get ahold of, but Carter speaks highly of you.”
Carter snorts. “That’s not true.”
Pierce doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t say positively.”
That gets a real laugh out of me—short and surprised, like my body forgot how to do it and just remembered.
Carter points at me. “See? He’s alive.”
Pierce’s attention snaps back to me. “I’ve watched your tape.”
My body goes still.
There’s something about hearing that—I’ve watched your tape—that wakes up an old version of me. The senior-season version. The version that lived for Sundays and film rooms and the clean, simple math of effort equals outcome.
Except now nothing is clean.
Now there’s surgery and rehab and grief and Sloane.
Now there’s the future I’ve been chasing since I was a kid, but it’s no longer an easy decision.
Pierce continues, “You’re fast. Sharp in your breaks. Good hands. High football IQ.”
I force my face to stay blank, like those words aren’t hitting me in the chest.
“Then there’s the injury,” he adds.
There it is.
The thing that always shows up like an unwanted fourth person at the table.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Pierce doesn’t soften his tone. “Talk to me about where you’re at.”
I take a slow breath. “Four months post-op. Triple tear. Rehab’s been consistent. I’m running straight-line now. Light route work. No full-speed cutting yet.”
Carter watches me like he can see the old me under the new.
Pierce asks, “Pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Swelling?”
“After heavier days. I ice. I do what I’m told.”
Pierce’s eyes flick to my posture, my hands, like he’s clocking all the little tells: guarded movement, protective habits, the way I still carry my body like I’m waiting for it to betray me.
He nods slowly. “You know how many guys I’ve watched who say they’re fine and mean ‘I’m terrified’?”
I don’t answer, because the truthful number is: all of them.
Including me.
Pierce goes on, “We’re not looking for perfect right now. We’re looking for honest. Your medicals will matter. Our staff will evaluate you. But I’m here because the upside is real.”
My heart beats once, heavy.
Carter taps the table. “Told you.”
I glance at Carter. “You told me you were gonna embarrass me in front of a coach.”
Carter grins. “Still true.”
Pierce’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. “You’ve been through a lot. Injury. Personal circumstances.”
My jaw tightens.
Carter’s expression shifts—just slightly. Less cocky. More real.
Pierce says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words are simple. Clean. Not the kind of pity that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
But it still makes something in me ache.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Pierce nods once, then moves on like he respects that grief is not a conversation he gets to lead. “Like I said in my message, we want you in camp. Not a guarantee. An opportunity.”
My spine straightens.
Carter leans forward like he’s watching a two-minute drill.
Pierce says, “We want you in camp. Not a guarantee. An opportunity.”
I stare at him.
A week ago, the idea of “camp” felt like something from another life. Now it’s sitting across from me in a booth with a water ring on the table.
Pierce continues, “Our receiver room is competitive. You know that. But we believe you can earn reps if your body holds. You’ll have to pass a physical. You’ll have to be ready to work. And you’ll have to decide.”
My mouth is dry. “Decide what?”
Pierce’s eyes sharpen. “Whether you’re coming.”
Carter glances at me like here we go.
Pierce reaches into his jacket pocket and slides a card across the table. Plain. Professional. A number printed on it. A name. No fluff.
“Here’s the timeline,” Pierce says. “I’m giving you two weeks.”
Two weeks.
The words make my stomach drop and lift at the same time.
“Two weeks,” I repeat, mostly to make sure I heard him right.
Pierce nods. “Two weeks. Talk to your people. Talk to your doctors. Get your head straight. Then you call me. Yes or no.”
Carter whistles low. “Damn, Coach. You’re giving him an ultimatum like it’s prom night.”
Pierce finally looks at Carter, unimpressed. “Carter.”
Carter immediately shuts up, hands lifting in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
Pierce’s gaze comes back to me. “This is a chance, not a demand, but it’s not open-ended.”
I swallow.
Two weeks isn’t long.
Two weeks is barely enough time for a bruise to fade.
Two weeks is definitely not enough time for grief to stop reaching for Sloane in the shower.
My brain flashes to her mouth on mine in the hallway, her whisper—I’m ready—like she handed me something fragile and priceless and trusted me not to drop it.
Pierce watches me wrestle with it. He doesn’t interrupt.
Finally, I ask the only question that matters.
“If I say yes…when?”
Pierce answers like he already planned for it. “Rookie camp dates will be in your packet. You’ll be traveling. You’ll be evaluated. If you can’t move the way we need you to move, we’ll know fast.”
Carter’s voice goes quieter. “But if you can…they’ll know fast too.”
Pierce nods. “Exactly.”
Silence settles over the table.
The waitress returns with menus, takes one look at our faces, and decides now is not the time for dessert suggestions. She leaves again.
Carter leans back and studies me, the smirk gone. “You okay?”
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah. Just…processing.”
Pierce stands first, smooth and decisive. “That’s all I needed.”
He gives me a final look—one that feels less like pressure and more like expectation. Like he believes in me enough to offer me a door and trusts me to decide if I’m walking through it.
“I’ll wait for your call,” he says.
Then he’s gone, slipping out of the booth and out of the diner like he was never here.
Carter watches him leave, then turns back to me. “Well.”
“Well,” I echo, staring at the card still sitting on the table like it might burn through the vinyl.
Carter’s eyes soften—rare. “You deserve that chance, Brooks.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
He taps the card. “But you’re gonna have to pick what kind of pain you can live with.”
That lands too clean.
Because there it is.
The truth.
If I go, I risk losing her.
If I stay, I risk losing the dream I built my entire identity around.
Either way, something breaks.
I shove the card into my pocket like I’m hiding it from myself. “I have to go.”
Carter nods once. “Go.”
I slide out of the booth and head for the door, heart heavy, mind louder than the diner’s neon hum.
Outside, the late afternoon sun hits my face, warm and normal, like the universe didn’t just hand me a crossroads.
My phone buzzes as I reach my truck.
A text.
Sloane: meeting go okay? drive safe.
It’s so simple it nearly kills me.
Because she’s not asking if I’m leaving.
She’s not demanding I choose her.
She’s just…there.
Waiting.
Trusting.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur, then type back with hands that feel too big for the moment.
yeah. I’m on my way.
And as I start the engine, all I can think is—
Two weeks.
Two weeks to figure out how to want two things without tearing myself in half.