Spring green turf under a clear California sky. That soft early-April warmth that isn’t hot yet, just sun on your skin and a breeze that smells faintly like cut grass.
It’s unfair how normal everything looks.
Like the world hasn’t been cracking open one day at a time.
Beck is already out here, stretching like a psycho, legs too long and shoulders too wide, built like he was designed in a lab to ruin quarterbacks’ days.
He spots me and grins.
“Look who decided to flirt with employment again.”
I flip him off. “You’re annoying as fuck, dude.”
“You’re alive,” he says brightly. “That’s more important.”
Beck jogs over, claps my shoulder once, careful, because he’s learned what careful means around my knee, and then his eyes drop to the sleeve.
“Ooo,” he says. “Cute. Accessorizing.”
“Shut up.”
He leans closer. “How’s it feel?”
“Like I’m walking around with a target on my leg.”
Beck’s grin softens a fraction. “Yeah.”
The way he says it, the understanding in his tone, makes my nerves come back.
Beck nods toward the far sideline. “Coach wants to see you move.”
“I figured.”
“Also,” Beck adds, and his voice shifts into something intentionally casual, “we’ve got visitors.”
My gaze follows his.
Coach Harding is on the sideline near the 40-yard line, hands on his hips, talking to two people I recognize instantly.
Carter Hayes.
Even in sweats, he carries himself like the field belongs to him. Like he still hears the crowd in his head no matter where he goes. There’s an easy confidence in the way he stands—shoulders loose, chin up, smile lazy.
Next to him is Lyla Harding, Coach’s daughter.
She’s got her hair pulled up, sunglasses perched on top of her head, a PCU hoodie on. She looks older than she did when she was around the facility more often, even if it was just a year ago. Like she’s learned how to stand in sports spaces without shrinking.
She’s also glaring at something on her phone like it personally offended her.
Coach Harding says something, and Lyla’s mouth twitches into a smile.
Carter laughs, throwing his head back like he’s not worried about anyone watching him.
Beck leans in. “Yeah. Maybe you should’ve replied to the group text.”
I’m already walking toward them before Beck finishes his sentence.
Because I’m not a coward.
