Every grueling stretch. Every icy bath in the lake on Oakwood Ranch last winter. Every vitamin and superfood smoothie. I did it. All I cared about was getting back to football. I don’t know who I am without it.
Coach leans forward from where he’s perched on the edge of the desk in front of me, his strong hand clasping my shoulder. “I’m truly sorry, son. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
Despite the crushing weight of disappointment, I force my head up. This is Coach Allen—the man who played a decade as a Stormhawks offensive lineman before joining the coaching staff and making his way up the ranks to head coach. He’s a man who commands respect, and he’s got mine.
“You had a great run,” Coach continues, moving around the desk and returning to his chair. It squeaks with his shifting bulk.
“Nine years,” I reply, ignoring how the last season and most of the one before were spent injured. “Your first draft,” I add.
Coach nods, the regret evident in the lines of his face. Like me, he’s probably thinking back to the year he took over as head coach. The year I was drafted in the first round, pick twelve. Fresh out of college. Coach Allen has been on the sidelines for every win and every loss of my pro football career. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I’ve had since Dad died in a ranching accident when I was eleven. Even now, as Coach crushes the last of my dreams, I respect the man. Which makes seeing the pity in his eyes like salt rubbed in an open wound.
“Dylan,” he says, softer now, “the Stormhawks will always be your team and your family. You know you’re welcome here and at Stormhawks Park anytime.”
“Thanks,” I mumble over the roar in my ears. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My body moves on autopilot. I push back the chair and leave his office.
The walls in the hallway feel like they’re closing in. The smell of sweat and dirt and cleaning products claws at the back of mythroat. That unforgettable scent of the locker room—the place I’ve lived and breathed for so many years. I feel like someone’s slammed a helmet in my gut. Everything I’ve ever wanted is gone. For good this time.
All those months of rehab. The hours of practice, getting my fitness back. The bruising drills with Jake and Chase on the football field Mama built at the back of the ranch after Dad died, when she threw us into football to give us something to focus our grief on. Even in the darkest moments of the last couple of years, I’ve clung to a whisper of hope. But it was all for nothing.
I hit the parking lot. The heat of the afternoon and the bright July sun sting my eyes. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I have to get away from here. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’ll be Mama. I imagine Coach Allen picked up the phone to call her the second I left.
Mama isn’t just the woman who raised us single-handedly after Dad died—she’s one of the best NFL agents in the business. She took on the job the moment the college scouts came knocking for me first, then Jake the year after, and Chase two years after that. “No” isn’t a word in Mama Sullivan’s vocabulary. She’s negotiated every contract, every bonus clause, every sponsorship deal. She’s the reason the Sullivan name means something. She built our careers from the ground up, while still managing to cook our dinners, call us out when our egos got too big, and pick us up through illness and injuries. Last year, when Jake’s reputation as a bad boy got out of hand, it was Mama who fixed it with a huge profile piece inSports Magazine, written by Harper, now Jake’s fiancée.
And right now, Mama will want to tell me all the reasons it’s going to be OK. She’ll pull out a game plan. TV appearances. Commentating. A new kind of career. But anything she’ll suggest is a life on the sidelines watching others live my dream. I can’t face it. I can’t face her. The phone stops ringing. A second later,it buzzes again and I turn it to silent and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans.
I don’t remember the drive. One moment, I’m pulling out of the stadium parking lot. The next, I’m parked outside The Hay Barn bar and pushing through the doors with a baseball cap pulled low to hide my face. The smell of beer and fried food hits me. Country tunes carry from the jukebox in the corner. The place is familiar and cozy. Wood panels and dim lighting. Stormhawks memorabilia covers the walls, and over the bar sits a set of bull horns. It’s the only bar I drink in. Usually with Jake and Chase in tow, the three of us tearing apart our games, ribbing each other over our mistakes.
The Hay Barn’s owner, Flic, raises a questioning eyebrow as I approach, already reaching for my usual light beer as I slide onto one of the barstools. Her long, white-blonde hair is pulled back into two braids, and as always, she’s dressed in a black tee and tight black jeans, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Her hand stops as I shake my head.
“Bourbon,” I say. “And keep it coming.”
She slides an empty tumbler across the bar and pours in a generous measure of amber liquid. “Rough day?”
I ignore the question and her worried frown as I knock back the glass in one gulp. The smoky liquid scalds its way down my throat before settling into a warm burn in my chest. The sensation doesn’t dull the hollow ache inside me, but it numbs the edges.
I motion at the empty glass, forcing out a thanks before gulping it back like the first. It burns a little less but still heats my veins.
Flic shoots me a concerned look before stepping away to serve another customer. The bar is quiet at this time on a Thursday afternoon, and I feel her staring even as she pours drinks for other customers. I know I need to say something. Flic isn’t just the owner of the unofficial Stormhawks team and fans bar, and a fan herself: she’s a friend. More like a sister considering the amount of time she spent hanging out with me and my brothers on the ranch while her parents ran this place.
“Don’t call them,” I say when Flic moves to refill my glass. “Please,” I add.
“Who?” she asks with an innocence that two shots in is almost funny.
“Jake, Chase, or Mama. I’m fine. I just need some bourbon and some time to myself.”
She assesses me for a long moment before she nods. “OK. But hand over the keys to your fancy new truck.”
“I’m not stupid, Flic,” I reply. “I’m not gonna drive it.”
“So you don’t need your keys then.” She waves the bottle at me with one hand, holding out the other.
I shrug, throwing her my keys. A second later, my glass is full. I take a sip and finally the alcohol settles like a warm blanket over the sting of disappointment. I might as well keep drinking. Nothing can make this day any worse.
TWO
IZZY
“And the guy’s still alive?” Flic’s voice rings with surprise.
