“I’m stalled.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’re healing. It’s just a little bump in the road.”
A little bump. I almost laugh, but it comes out wrong.
Because a bump doesn’t threaten your whole future.
A bump doesn’t change the way people look at you.
A bump doesn’t make you feel like your value has an expiration date.
The distinction matters more than I want it to.
“They still talking about the draft?” I ask, like I haven’t been thinking about it nonstop. Like it hasn’t been sitting in the back of my skull every time I close my eyes.
Beck hesitates, his reaction telling me everything his words won’t.
“Some,” he says carefully. “It’s January. People speculate. Doesn’t mean much yet.”
I huff a laugh. “It means everything.”
Being injured my senior year with limited tape doesn’t exactly bode well for me. Especially with my injury scaring scouts more than it should. Especially when there’s alwaysanother guy behind you ready to take your reps and your routes and your spot.
My brain fills in the blanks automatically.
You missed your window.
You waited too long.
Someone else took your spot.
And the worst part?
I can already hear the voices that would say it out loud.
Bad luck. Promising. Could’ve been something.
Beck watches my face like he knows exactly where my thoughts are headed.
“You are good,” he says.
“Was,” I correct.
He shakes his head. “You don’t get to decide that yet.”
I don’t argue. I don’t trust myself to.
We sit in silence for a while, the TV murmuring quietly in the background. Beck doesn’t try to fix anything. That’s always been his thing—show up, stay, don’t bullshit.
Finally, he stands, stretching his shoulders like he’s reluctant to leave.
“Text me after your next rehab day,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“And Logan?” He pauses at the door. “You’re more than football. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”
I swallow hard.
