Coach nods once. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence sits between us, thick and familiar.
Then Coach says quieter, “They still talk about you.”
My chest tightens. “Who?”
“Scouts. People. Draft noise.” Coach’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s February. Everyone speculates. It’s all noise.”
My stomach drops anyway.
Because noise becomes reality fast.
I swallow. “And what do you say?”
Coach’s expression turns firm. “I say your tape doesn’t disappear because your knee decided to end your senior season a little early.”
My throat tightens until it almost hurts.
Coach continues like he’s giving me a directive, not comfort. “Stop letting worst-case narratives write your future.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Coach’s eyes sharpen. “No. It’s easier foryouto say. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”
The callout lands like a clean punch.
I clench my jaw.
Coach’s voice softens just a fraction. “You’re not behind. You’re injured. There’s a difference.”
Beck said the same thing.
It still doesn’t feel true inside my head.
Coach nods toward the wall where our team photo hangs. “You’re still part of this. You hear me?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“If you want to come in once a week, even just for upper body, you can,” Coach adds. “No pressure. But get back into your world when you can. You can’t rehab in isolation and expect your brain to stay clean.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Coach’s mouth twitches. “And Brooks?”
I look up.
“Don’t make your entire identity your comeback story. You’re more than football.”
The words hit the same place Beck’s did. I nod once because that’s all I can do without cracking.
Coach claps my shoulder again. “Good. Now, get out of my office before I make you do paperwork.”
A small laugh escapes—real this time.
“Yes, sir.”
As I open the door, Coach calls, “Tell Beck he still owes me film notes.”
