CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Cole
“Listen up,” I say seconds before we’re set to take the field. My teammates mill around in their uniforms, helmets off. Some are chilling to music. Others are sitting with their eyes closed practicing visualization.
Brody whistles loudly and heads snap in my direction where I’m now standing on a bench. The room slows down to a hush.
“Big game today, right? I know their record is shit but their defense is punishing so uh, let’s protect this pretty face of mine as best we can.” A chuckle goes through the guys.
“You’ll still be ugly, Valor,” our tight end yells, earning him a laugh.
And I’m suddenly at ease and in my element. I feel better than I have in weeks for various reasons: my time with Dr. Hawley, how well things are going with Dublin, finally telling someone about my dad, and a killer week of practice.
“Look, I know some of you may think I’ve been distracted, not on my best game for the last . . . forever—”
“Nah, really?” someone yells out from the back and more laughs ring out.
“Really. There’s been extra noise around here and even more bullshit you didn’t sign up for.
Questions being asked of you about me that I’m sure you don’t give a fuck about answering.
I don’t either.” I wait for them all to settle from their nods.
“I appreciate the hell out of you guys for sticking through it. For not letting it fracture what we’ve built here. ”
I glance around at every face. At every guy who’s had my back whether I deserved it or not.
“But here’s the thing. Fuck the noise. Fuck the extra everything.
I came here to play ball. I came here to be your teammate, to be your quarterback and drive down that goddamn field beside you.
For you. I came here to win.” A few whistles ring out.
“We’ve had some rocky games—those are on me—but we’re still in good standing to reach the playoffs.
To do what many said couldn’t be done in the second year of this team’s existence. ”
“Valor!” someone yells in support.
“So whatever noise is out there? It stays out there.” I point to all of them in front of me. “In here?” I tap my chest. “It’s us. It’s each other.” I pause and then shout, “Let’s go get this fucking win.”
The room erupts. Cheers. Shouts. Hands slapping backs. The energy is palpable and addictive.
And it carries with us as we head out into the tunnel. Adrenaline is high before the start of any game, but we’re fired up today.
I can feel it in my bones. It’s the first time I’ve felt this energized, untouchable adrenaline in weeks. I can feel it in my bones, In my soul.
The stadium lights. The energy vibrating through me and all around.
Everything hits at once but only serves to enhance my focus. It’s sharper, clearer . . . different.
Maybe this is all over. If this feeling is any indication, it definitely fucking is.
But the feeling is short-lived because we may be winning heading into the fourth quarter, but I’ve had my ass handed to me and my back meet the turf more times than I care to count.
My O-line isn’t holding for shit. My receivers are being double teamed. Thank fuck our rushers are kicking ass or we’d be in a world of hurt.
“Shotgun pass is the option,” Lucas says as he holds up his chart of plays.
Helmet in one hand and towel wiping over my face in the other, I nod. “Agreed. We could do play action, but it’s like they know what we’re going to do before we even know what we’re going to do.”
My hand shakes again. The fourth time in the last few minutes. I’ve had it on a water bottle or gripping my helmet when it does, so I’ve been able to hide it.
Malachi.
I’ve been so locked in, so busy trying to avoid getting tackled as my line folds, that I forgot what I told Mal. Fuck. I hate that I’ve resorted to testing my brother.
“We’ll go with that then for the first sequence,” Lucas says. “Then we’ll adapt.”
“Got it,” I say as I toss the rag and put my hand inside my helmet. It’s a subtle action, something that wouldn’t be noticed unless you’re looking for it, and an action I’ve done less than a handful of times that I can recall.
With my hand in the helmet, I take a glance up to suite level. There he is, Malachi, right where he said he’d be. And as if on cue, he flips me off.
I bark out a short laugh before I can stop it, shaking my head as I turn back toward the field.
“Let’s have one, Valor,” Glennon says as he smacks my ass. “That pretty face of yours isn’t looking too beat up yet.”
I put my helmet on my head and buckle it as we jog out. “Yeah, that’s cuz my body’s taking the brunt.”
“All you QBs are the same,” he jokes as we step into the huddle.
I shake my head as I settle under the center, scanning the defense, letting everything narrow the way it always does.
Everything—the crowd, the pressure, my gut instinct that Mal isn’t in on this—fades away but the play.
The ball hits my hands, and this time I’m not just playing the game.
I’m narrowing the field.