Chapter 3
BECK
Ishould’ve gone straight back to the house. That was the plan—show my face, grab a drink, then leave before anyone asked me to stick around. Instead, I ended up walking Sophie across campus like some knight in a shining hoodie.
Not that she needed saving. She held her ground just fine. But sometimes assholes don’t know when to quit, and something about the way he was crowding her didn’t sit right with me.
So, I stepped in, like any good man would do. Nothing more to it.
The night air bites a little by the time I cut back across the quad toward the house that’s all the way across campus. My hands are shoved deep in my hoodie pocket, hood up, keeping my focus forward. She said she was fine. She probably is.
Still, I catch myself replaying the way she looked under the streetlight—chin tipped stubbornly up, eyes the kind of blue that stood out even in the dark. Pretty, sure. But plenty of girls are.
That’s where it ends.
I’m not in the market for distractions, and I’m not sure my heart will ever be solid enough to risk again.
The locker room is loud with the usual pre-practice noise—helmets clattering onto benches, music spilling from someone’s speaker, half the team talking over the other half.
I keep to myself, same as always, dropping onto the bench in front of my locker. Tape, pads, helmet. Routine. No room for anything else.
“Harrison!” Logan’s voice cuts over the noise. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”
“Had enough,” I say, short and simple, tugging my jersey over my head.
“Man, you’re getting soft,” one of the linebackers jokes from down the row. “Can’t even close down a party anymore.”
I don’t bother answering. Logan smirks from across the room, but he doesn’t push.
The whistle blows, and just like that, the noise cuts off. Everyone files out, and I follow, shoulders loose, head clear.
Out here, there’s no guessing, no second-guessing. Just the field, the drills, the hits.
I drop into position, eyes locked on the offense. The snap cracks, and I’m moving, muscles firing before thought. Impact rattles through me as I drive into the runner, pads colliding, the sound sharp and final.
That’s the only thing I need. The only thing I trust.
I drop into my stance, knees bent, weight forward.
The quarterback barks the cadence, the ball snaps, and instinct takes over.
I read the guard’s pull, cut across the line, and slam into the running back before he has a chance to find the gap.
His pads pop against mine, the impact cracking through my shoulder and chest.
He stumbles backward, feet tangling, and I drive through him until the whistle blows.
“Good pursuit, Harrison!” Coach Harding’s voice slices through the morning air. “Keep that edge!”
Harding is a hard ass, pun intended, but he’s also basically a teddy bear too.
Last year, one of my best friends and our quarterback, Carter Hayes, fell for Coach’s daughter, hard.
That was a bit of a bumpy ride from what I was told, but it worked out well for them in the end.
Lyla is rocking her internship, and he’s playing his first season in the NFL this year as is our former wide receiver, Jaxon Montgomery.
To absolutely no one’s surprise, Montgomery is making headline after headline, already set to break some huge records during his rookie season.
All the guys are planning to watch them play each other in a few weeks, even though Carter is riding his team’s bench a lot so far. He’ll get his time, I’m sure of it.
I jog back to the huddle, breathing hard but steady. Sweat runs down my spine, dampening the collar of my jersey, but it feels good. Controlled. Exactly how I like it.
The next rep resets fast. Offense lines up, trying a new look. I scan the formation, the way the tight end shifts, the quarterback’s eyes flicking wide—tells I’ve learned to read without thinking.
Another snap. This time, it’s play-action. I don’t bite. Drop back into coverage, shadowing the tight end as he breaks across the middle. He cuts hard inside, and I stick with him, shoulder-to-shoulder until the ball’s in the air. One step, one reach, and my hand bats it clean away.
Whistle.
I hear a couple claps from my teammates as we reset. I don’t grin, don’t celebrate. I just nod once, reset my mouthpiece, and line back up.
That’s the job. Anticipate. Hit. Reset.
No distractions. No feelings. Just the game.
The next few plays blur together in a rhythm I know better than anything. Read, react, collide. Drop back in coverage, explode into the line, fill the gap before it opens. Linebacker work isn’t about glory. It’s about seeing what no one else sees and closing it before it matters.
By the time Coach blows his final whistle, my jersey is soaked, and my lungs burn in the best way. I yank my helmet off, sweat dripping down my temples, and drag in a breath of sharp, cool air. This—this is the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that doesn’t leave room for second-guessing.
“Wrap it up!” Coach yells. “Film tomorrow. Hydrate and don’t be late.”
We jog off the field, cleats biting into the turf, pads clacking as helmets knock together in a tired sort of celebration.
The chatter is easy—guys ribbing each other about missed assignments, a freshman bragging about a hit that wasn’t nearly as clean as he thinks.
I let it wash over me without joining in.
The locker room is loud again, steam already clouding the showers, music bouncing from someone’s speaker. I peel off my gear, dump it into the bin, and step under the spray. The water hits hot, pounding against sore muscles. For a minute, I just stand there, letting it scald me clean.
This part is supposed to be simple too. A shower, a change, a night out with the guys.
“Yo, Harrison.” One of the linebackers—Rico, a sophomore with too much energy—pokes his head around the row of lockers. “We’re hitting O’Malley’s later. You in?”
Another voice chimes in. “C’mon, man. First weekend back. Don’t be lame.”
I shake my head, scrubbing water through my hair. “Not tonight.”
There’s a chorus of groans, a few good-natured insults. They’ll go without me. They always do. I’ve earned enough respect from my teammates that no one presses too hard.
But when the noise fades and the water runs hotter, my stomach twists.
Celiac.
The word still feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me. But the diagnosis was clear. Years of stomach issues, getting sick after meals, the colds that lingered too long, the energy that never stayed consistent—it all had a name now, something to blame.
I lean a hand against the slick tile, shutting my eyes against the sting that has nothing to do with the water.
Gluten-free. No more late-night pizza. No beers at the bar after practice. Every bite from here on out has to be checked, double-checked, sometimes even triple-checked. One mistake, and I’m wrecked for days.
Did you know that even some tooth paste has gluten? And shampoo? I didn’t either, but it’s true. Don’t even get me started on the limited beer selections. Any party I attend, my cups now consist of water or another safe option, normally courtesy of my good friend Jack.
It shouldn’t scare me this much, but it does. Because this body is my shot, my future. If I can’t trust it, what else do I have?
I stay under the spray until the voices fade, until I know the guys have moved on, talking about shots and wings and girls. Until I can pull myself together again.
When I finally shut off the water, all I let myself think is one thing, the only thing that matters.
My future.
Only, right now, I don’t quite know what that looks like.
The locker room empties out, one by one. I change fast, tug on a hoodie and jeans, then slip out before anyone else can corner me about tonight. My keys jingle in my hand, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor.
The night air is cool, carrying the faint tang of cut grass from the practice field. I make my way across the lot to my truck, climbing in and shutting the door behind me like I’m sealing off the rest of the world.
The engine rumbles to life, but my head isn’t clear at all.
The highway stretch between campus and my house is short, familiar. Trees blur past in the dark, headlights sweeping across old fences and quiet sidewalks. My hands grip the wheel tighter than they need to, like maybe if I hold on hard enough, the questions spinning in my head will settle.
NFL.
The letters feel heavy, like they’ve been carved into me since the day I picked up a football.
My dad’s dream, stamped over mine. His voice echoes in my head, sharp and certain.
Don’t waste what you’ve got, Beck. Guys would kill for your size, your instincts.
You’ve got a shot most kids never even taste. Don’t screw it up.
He’s not wrong. I want it. I do. The roar of the stadium, the rush of the hit, the way the world narrows to a single play—it’s in my blood. But it’s not the only thing in me.
Because when the pads come off, when I’m sitting in class working toward my degree in psychology, something just clicks.
Something quieter but just as real. I think about kids who grew up like me, never sure if anyone was really on their side, never quite feeling like you belonged where you were.
I think about what it would mean to be that person for someone else.
A counselor. A teacher. A steady place when everything else is chaos. Just like Mr. Kay was for me.
I flex my hands against the wheel, knuckles tight. How do you choose between two futures when one feels like destiny and the other feels like purpose?
The truck hums down the road, tires hissing over asphalt. My stomach gives a sharp twist, and I press my lips together. Celiac. The word bites in again, a reminder I can’t shake. What if it costs me everything? What if my body quits before I can prove myself?
I roll the window down a crack, let the cool air rush in, and force my jaw to unclench. I can’t afford to spiral. Not now.
For tonight, the answer stays the same as always: focus on football. Keep my head down. Do the work. One practice, one rep, one game at a time.
The rest—the doubts, the what-ifs, the dreams I don’t dare say out loud—they can wait.
I turn onto my street, headlights sweeping across the small rental house I share with two teammates. The porch light glows dim, one bulb already burned out. Normal. Predictable.
I park, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment in the dark cab, the ticking of the cooling engine loud in the silence. My reflection stares back at me in the windshield, eyes shadowed, jaw set.
Guarded. Just the way it has to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all over again.
Because if football doesn’t come first, nothing else will matter. At least, according to my dad.
My hands stay on the wheel, knuckles turning white, like if I let go everything I’ve been holding back might just slip out with it.
The house is right there—warm light in the window, laughter faint through the walls. Easy. Normal. But my chest feels tight, like I’m caught between two plays and the clock’s already running.
NFL. Counselor. Two futures pulling in opposite directions, both demanding pieces of me I’m not sure I can give.
I should go inside. I should let it go for the night.
Instead, I sit there in the quiet, heart pounding steady against the weight of everything I haven’t decided.
Balanced on the edge, and stuck at the crossroads without knowing which way to go.