“Seven,” I reply. “I’ve spent the last two injured, remember?”
Mama gives me a look I haven’t seen since Jake’s teenage years—usually right before a blowout over unfinished homework. “Seven years playing at the top of your game before you were injured. Then you defied all the odds. You got your knee working again and your fitness back. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. And I know it’s been hard. So Igave you this week. I let you sulk and drink and wallow in a way you’ve never done before. But you’ve got a ranch full of horses and a good woman running herself into the ground trying to keep things together?—”
“I get it,” I cut in. “I’ve messed up.” The words sting more than I want to admit.
Mama’s voice softens. “This isn’t about what you did, Dylan. It’s about what you’re going to do. I’ve never known you not to show up. Don’t start now. So get your ass out of bed and get your head straight.”
She pats my leg then stands and walks out, her footsteps fading down the hall. I stare up at the ceiling and hate how right she is. I know I need to finder a buyer, and until then I should be helping out. But I’m not ready to face the ranch. Or the horses. Or Izzy Brooks, for that matter.
Instead, I drag myself out of bed and hit my weights rack. In seconds, the barbell is loaded, and I’m wrapping my hands around the cool metal. Sweat builds quickly, dripping down my spine as I push my body hard. Every lift and pull burns through the fog of guilt and anger. I push through the final set like the right number of reps could rewrite the last week.
Get your ass out of bed and get your head straight.
I let the barbell crash back on the rack as my chest heaves and my muscles burn. I wipe my face and glance toward the window. I catch sight of Izzy dragging a piece of wood across the dirt, a tool belt around her waist. I turn away.I’m not a football player. Not a Stormhawk. Not anything. And if I stay here much longer, I’m going to lose what little I’ve got left of myself. I need to get the hell off this ranch.
I shower fast, throw on some clothes, and five minutes later I’m in my truck, heading toward the city. Like every day so far this week, I don’t have a destination in mind. But somehow, I always end up in the same place—Stormhawks Park. Sitting a few miles south of the stadium, the state-of-the-art training facility has three full-sized fields, an indoor gym, a rehab center with a pool, and a sauna in the basement. Every square foot of the place is designed to build champions. And this place, along with the stadium, feels like my second home.
I pull into the lot and kill the engine. For a minute, I just sit there, staring through the windshield, fingers gripping the wheel. I’m not sure why I keep coming back. Why I can’t stay away.
The afternoon sun is blazing down on the green turf as I make my way to the training field. Something in the sight drags my thoughts to the ranch. I think about the paddocks—how I kept the grass from turning to weeds over the years, enough to keep the place from looking abandoned. But now? Now I’m not sure it was enough. Not for horses. Not for real work. A new kindof guilt twists in my gut, and I shut the thought down before it can take root and focus on the practice instead. This is where I belong.
Out on the fields, the team has been divided into groups, eachrunning drills. Coach Allen is standing back, watching it all, seeing everything. All around me are the noises of bodies slamming into pads, the yells of the players, whistles, and the coaching staff shouting plays. I skirt the edge of the field and head toward the far corner by the fence. Coach Allen nods a greeting my way but leaves me alone, and I’m grateful. Talking to him will only dig deeper into a wound I don’t think will ever heal.
I take up my position, leaning against the fence, and just watch, pretending my muscles aren’t twitching, like I don’t want to be in the middle of every play. I focus on the rookie squad. They’re paired up, running blocking drills. One of the rookies is way too eager. He keeps lunging forward during the block. Every time, he’s stepping too deep into the gap, allowing his teammate to shoot straight through. It’s a mess, and nobody’s calling him on it.
I can’t help myself.
“Hey!” I call out, stalking forward, jamming a finger at the rookie. “You’re overcommitting.”
The kid—barely twenty-one, judging by the baby face—blinks up at me. I see the recognition in his eyes. He knows exactly who I am and is already nodding nervously. Instantly, my face softens. Maybe I’m not on this team anymore, but I still know football. “You need to keep your feet under your hips and let the defender come to you. Anchor your stance.” I show him how to place his feet and he copies the gesture. “Right now, you’re a revolving door.”
The rookie adjusts his stance and runs the drill again. It’s solid.
“Good,” I call out. “Just keep your weight centered.”
A whistle blows and one of the rookie coaches finally notices me. There’s a brief flicker of surprise on his face, but he gives me a nod before turning back to the squad.
I spend the rest of the practice feeling like aghost haunting my old life. When practice winds down and the team hits the locker room, I catch the shout of a familiar voice.
“Look what the bourbon dragged in.”
I turn to see Jake jogging over, helmet tucked under his arm, smile wide, sweat coating his face. Chase isn’t far behind, looking real good in the Stormhawks red jersey.
“Don’t tell me, you couldn’t stay away,” Jake says, wiping his face on his sleeve.
“Just watching,” I reply.
Chase’s smile fades a little like he sees something Jake doesn’t. “You good?”
“Peachy,” I reply.
They exchange a look. The same look I saw a hundred times during those months I was injured—every time football came up at family dinners and I had to pretend it wasn’t ripping me apart to hear them talking through plays I wasn’t part of.
Chase shifts first. “This really sucks, Dyl. You should be out here with us.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Glad we’re all caught up.”
Jake nudges my arm, telling me without words to stop being a dick.
