CHAPTER TWO
Cole
The walk off the field feels longer than it should.
Boos are mixed with half-hearted cheers. The kind fans give you when they’re not sure which version of you they’re getting anymore.
And I get it. I do. I’m not sure what’s happening either.
So I keep my head down, helmet tucked under my arm, and jaw set like none of it matters.
Because it doesn’t.
I can’t let it.
“Valor.”
I don’t slow when I hear my name called. Not the first time. Not the second. But when the third comes with footsteps, the groan I emit in my head is deafening.
“Cole. Hey. One quick question.”
I glance over to see the reporter keeping pace with me—credentials swinging from her neck, phone with recording app on in her hand, and eyes sharp in a way that says she’s not going to fall for the standard lines of fluff.
And fluff—the company line—is pretty much all I’m willing to give.
She’s young, polished, and by the way she’s keeping up with me in those high heels, extremely persistent.
Fucking perfect.
“Not a good time,” I mutter. Given the quickened click of her shoes beside me, she doesn’t take the hint.
“Kate MacMillan with SportsOne. You can give me just one though, can’t you? Us two rookies just trying to make a name for ourselves.”
“My name’s already made,” I say. “You’re the one trying to catch up.” I switch my helmet to my other hand and don’t break stride.
“What changed between your first drive and the rest of the game? From the beginning of the season to the last few games. What—”
“You said one.” I stop and glare. “That’s three. That doesn’t exactly bode well for trust, now does it?”
And then I keep walking.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Most people would’ve backed off by now.
“Maybe a word as to why you looked so—”
“Off?” I finish for her, flashing a grin that is all teeth and zero substance. “Is that the word you’re going for?”
She doesn’t smile back. Good. I respect that more than the ones who do.
“I was going to say inconsistent.”
“Ah.” I nod. “That sounds nicer, but you, me, and the fans yelling at me as I ran into the tunnel were thinking something a little harsher than inconsistent.”
She presses her lips together, unimpressed with my sarcasm. “Care to elaborate on why you were feeling off?”
I slow and let my gaze drag over her for a second longer than necessary. Not overtly or crudely, but just enough to remind her that I know exactly how this game works.
“You always come this hard out of the gate?” I ask.
“Only when the QB1 has thrown more interceptions in the last two games than he has in all of last year.”
There it is. A fact I’m well the fuck aware of, but that I didn’t expect her to throw in my face.
“Guess I earned that, huh?” I huff out a laugh and shake my head as we reach where the tunnel ends and restricted access for her begins.
“So?”
“So?” I repeat with a shrug and another grin. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
If I figure it out.
“Is it a confidence issue? Did you tweak your mechanics and the change isn’t working? Is it your mental game?”
“You’re really going for it, aren’t you?” I shake my head in disbelief.
“It’s my job.”
“And playing football is mine.” I take a step backward. “It was nice talking to you.”
That earns me a flicker of what looks to be annoyance. Good.
“You’re not going to answer my question?”
“Better luck next week.” I turn and step into the locker room before she can fire off another question.
Her voice follows me anyway. “I’ll be here.”
Of course she will. Reporters always do.
I welcome the chaos and noise of the locker room when I step fully inside it. There’s that post-game hum to it—equipment being sorted, trainers calling out, groans of pain or frustration—and I allow all of it to swallow the noise in my head.
Because the reporter was right. My mental game is fucked right now.
I drop my helmet into my locker stall harder than necessary and drag a hand down my face.
“Rough one,” Horner says as he passes.
“Understatement of the year,” I say.
He lingers for a second, like he wants to say more, then thinks better of it. Smart man.
Even with all the noise, I can hear my phone buzzing on the shelf of my stall.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
It stops, and then it starts all over again.
I don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. But I do anyway.
Dad.
I turn the phone over and ignore not only the calls, but the dozens of one-line texts that are about to hit it.
Not now.
Not when I already know what they’re going to say.
What the hell was that?
You call that NFL worthy?
You think that’s good enough?
My jaw aches from clenching it so tight.
Do your fucking job, Valor.
I close my eyes and exhale, trying to reset, but that doesn’t do shit. Frustrated, I grab my water bottle instead and take a long drink. Nothing will wash the taste of the game out of my mouth though.
Nothing.
“Not acceptable.” The hoarse voice of Coach Brooks cuts through the locker room. It’s sharp enough to make us all glance his way.
Coach is standing just outside the locker room, and he’s laying into Marshall, one of the rookie receivers. He’s young. Still stuck in that space where college and the NFL feel like the same game.
They’re not. Far fucking from it.
“You drop that pass and then you expect to stay on the field?” Coach snaps. “You think this is college? You think that’s going to fly on my goddamn team?”
Marshall shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“No, you don’t,” Coach shouts as if he never even spoke. “Because if you did, you’d catch the damn ball.”
Marshall swallows. “Yes, sir.”
I watch for a second longer than I should, because I know that look. The mix of embarrassment and panic. That need to not screw up again. And yeah, he dropped the pass earlier, but that isn’t the whole story.
I move toward them, and a few guys nearby go quiet. Heads turn. “Hey,” I say.
Marshall glances over as I interrupt the conversation. His expression shifts slightly to acknowledge me.
“That drop’s on me, Coach.”
Both Coach and Marshall snap their heads in my direction.
“Excuse me?” Coach says.
“Ball was high.” I shrug like it’s an obvious observation he missed. “I should’ve put it on his numbers, not beyond his vertical.”
That’s not how it happened. We all know it. Marshall knows it. Coach definitely knows it.
There’s a pause where no one says anything, and the locker room falls into a hush.
Coach studies me, weighing whether to push or let me be the leader and therefore take it on my shoulders. He exhales and nods.
“Fix whatever the problem is,” he mutters. “Because that was shit out there today. Goddamn fucking shit.”
When he walks off, I half expect him to pick up a towel or water bottle and throw it, but he doesn’t. The minute he clears the doorway, the tension in the room breaks instantly.
Marshall just stares at me like I handed him something and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
I shrug. “Quarterbacks take the heat. That’s part of the job.”
He opens his mouth to argue but then closes it, taking the win I just gave him.
“We do it all over again next week,” I say. “Let’s focus on that because we’re going to need you at the top of your game.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Good.” I clap him once on the shoulder and head back into the locker room, knowing that if anyone needs to be at the top of their game, it’s me.
My phone is still buzzing when I sit back down in front of my stall. Ignoring it, I lean forward, bracing my forearms on my thighs and stare at the floor between my feet.
To my teammates? I’m fine. It was a bad game. It happens. I’ll shake it off just like they will and I’ll move on.
That’s what everyone sees. Or rather, that’s what I’ll let them see.
What they don’t see is the game running loops through my mind. Every play. Every throw. The timing. The way the ball felt leaving my hand.
All of it off.
All of it wrong.
All of it open to the harsh criticism I’ve received my whole career.
I flex my fingers again and there it is—the tiniest tremor. Funny how that tiny tremble can cause an earthquake elsewhere.
I close my hand into a fist to stop it before anyone notices, because this is all in my head. It’s the yips.
That’s the only explanation.
But the incessant vibrating of my phone says otherwise. I grab my phone and glance at the screen.
Thirteen missed calls and thirty-six texts from him alone. My thumb hovers for a second, but then I toss it back onto the shelf.
Not now. Not tonight.
It’s the yips.
That’s all it is.
I’ll address it, fix it, and lead this team to victory.
That’s my job.
That’s all there is to it.