CHAPTER ONE
Cole
The roar of the crowd hits before anything else.
It rolls through the stadium in loud, relentless waves and settles deep in my chest like it belongs there. Like it always has. Under the lights on a night like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I flex my fingers as I scan the defense across from me. Cameras flash in the stands. No doubt the commentators on radio and TV are building the moment. Sixty thousand plus people in the stands around me lean forward, waiting to see what happens next.
But none of that matters out here.
All that does is the read.
“Trips right, sixty-two slant, on one,” I say as I step into the huddle, my voice steady and controlled, exactly what is expected of their QB1. “Time to show them who they’re dealing with. Let’s go.”
My teammates’ claps are a unified crack as we break the huddle and move to the line of scrimmage. I settle in behind our center and take in the defensive shift. The safety creeps left. The corner plays soft.
It’s a basic coverage. One I’ve seen hundreds of times.
Time to rock and roll.
I start the cadence and finish it with, “Hike.”
The ball hits my hands, and everything slows the way it always does. I drop back, eyes tracking the movement in front of me so that I can adjust on the fly. I trust the same instinct that carried me through an NCAA championship last year then straight into now—my second year in the NFL.
I step out of the pocket and release just as Camden Wolfe cuts inside with perfect timing. The second the ball leaves my hand, I know.
Shit.
It’s too goddamn high.
Wolfe jumps, stretching for it, but it slips past his fingertips and hits the turf behind him—just shy of their tight end’s outstretched hands.
There’s a whoosh from the crowd as the play falls short. I feel their disappointment but shake it off. Just a misfire.
Not the first time, won’t be the last.
It’s part of the game.
“That’s on me,” I say to Wolfe like it’s nothing. Like I don’t hit that throw ten out of ten times.
He flashes a grin. “All good.”
We reset.
Second down.
I shake my hands as I step back into position. No bad juju here.
The snap comes.
I drop back, plant, throw . . . and the ball dies short. The receiver lunges for it, barely getting his fingertips on it before it slips through and hits the ground.
Another incompletion. Not unusual for a quarterback to miss a couple throws in a sequence.
But what the fuck? That shit isn’t normal for me.
And it’s not just the miss, it’s the hesitation before it. The split-second where my brain questions what my body already knows how to do.
“Fucking bullshit,” I mutter under my breath as I glance toward the sidelines where our offensive coordinators stand. Peter and Lucas both give me a nod saying you’re fine, but the row of fans behind them flipping me off and booing say otherwise.
Funny how fast the crowd can turn.
I adjust my chin strap and exhale slowly. Stay loose. You got this.
“You’re good,” a teammate says, patting my ass as he runs off the field. “No big.”
But it is big. Quarterbacks don’t get rattled. I don’t get rattled. I can’t. That’s not just something we say, it’s the expectation.
So why is this happening again?
“All good,” Kimble says. His shoulder pad knocks into mine as he steps into the huddle. “Third down. Make it happen.”
I nod, call the play, and step up to the line.
Their defense tightens, energy building. The crowd leans in, their anticipation palpable from where I stand.
Everyone knows what’s coming. We need ten yards and we’re not going to get it by rushing. Not with how tough their defense is.
We’re throwing long.
They know it. I can see it in the way they keep glancing at our receivers. In the way their fingers are twitching. In the way they are so amped up to cross the line of scrimmage.
They’re going to blitz. They have to in order to deny me the time I need for my receiver to get far enough down the field.
“Blue eighty. Blue Eighty. Set.”
The ball snaps. The blitz comes just like I expected, but I adjust, stepping back and trusting my O-line to hold.
Haberman is almost there—downfield—and with enough space for a clean catch. I shift my weight and release the ball.
Good trajectory.
Haberman’s eyes are on it, his hands up ready to receive it.
A blur from the right as their cornerback leaps and snatches the ball about ten feet in front of him.
Interception.
Fuck.
If I could put a sound to the gut punch I feel, it would be the way the crowd exhales all at once. Those breaths being held to cheer, now deflate from their lungs.
For a second everything goes quiet. Not the stadium. Not the crowd. Just . . . me.
I stand there and watch him celebrate as my brain tries to catch up with what just happened. How was that throw short? Did I telegraph it?
Two interceptions last game. Now this. That’s more than my entire final year in college.
This is unacceptable. Total bullshit. Not how I play.
I rip my helmet off as I hit the sideline and roll my neck as irritation simmers just under the surface.
“What the hell was that?” Graham mutters as he passes.
I don’t answer because I don’t have one to give.
“Bad series,” Coach Brooks says when I reach him, arms crossed and eyes locked on mine. “Reset.”
“I’m good,” I say immediately. Almost too quickly. His gaze lingers like he’s waiting for something else.
There isn’t anything though.
I have no excuses. I have no explanations.
After a second, he nods and turns away.
I drop onto the bench and lean forward with my elbows on my knees, eyes tracking the field like I’m already focused on the next drive.
Because that one’s over.
Done.
Except my heart won’t slow down. It’s pounding—too fast, too hard.
I flex my hand, the movement subtle so that no one notices. Once. Twice. But there it is. A tremor. Barely noticeable but . . . I curl my fingers into a fist, tightening until it subsides. What the hell is this?
You’ve made harder throws than that a thousand times over. Probability says a few fail, but I just burned through that percentage in two fucking games.
Doesn’t mean anything. Can’t.
Breathe, fucker. You’re fine.
I lean against the back of the bench and drag in a deeper breath, forcing control back into place. Just a fucking fluke.
“Next drive,” I call out, loud enough that my teammates can hear over the noise. “We’re putting seven on the board.” Anything else is unacceptable.
They nod like they believe it.
Like they always believe it.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands again, and force everything back into place.
Quarterbacks are leaders, Cole. They’re expected to exude greatness. If you don’t think you can be either, then get your ass back on the bench like those other pansy-asses and don’t bother coming home.
“Hey, Valor?”
I glance over. Lucas Hale, the revered but retired quarterback, now one of our offensive coordinators and dare I say, mentor, stands there, eyes assessing and expression knowing.
I lift my chin in acknowledgment.
“Shit happens,” he says. “Not every game’s a stat booster. We’ve all been there.”
He holds my gaze. He’s been in this headspace before, so he gets it . . . but he didn’t grow up the way I did.
“Yeah,” I say, jaw tight. “Well, I’m not planning on it being one of those games.”
Emotion flickers in his expression—approval, maybe? I don’t know. It doesn’t last long enough to read it. “Take that anger out there on the field with you.”
I nod and look back toward the game. The last thing I want right now is to be placated.
Do your fucking job, Valor.
I glance around. At my teammates. To the crowd filling the stadium. And feel the only rhythm I’ve ever known.
Everything looks the same.
Everything feels the same.
But something isn’t right.
I look down at my hand and flex my fingers once more.
This time, I don’t pretend I’m not worried.