“Brooks,” he says, and his voice has that forced energy that tells me he’s trying not to think too hard. “Tell me you didn’t die today.”
“I jogged,” I say, and it comes out blunt, like if I say it out loud, it becomes real.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Beck goes, “Wait—seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say again, softer. “Return-to-run progression.”
Beck lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “Damn. Look at you. Proud of you.”
My throat tightens, stupidly.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Okay,” he says, his tone shifting like he’s trying to keep us in safer territory. “Draft’s in two days. You sitting with me, or are you bailing to go stare dramatically at a wall?”
“I’m sitting with you,” I say immediately. “Obviously.”
“Good,” Beck says. “Sophie already picked your seat.”
I huff. “Of course she did.”
“She says you’re not allowed to brood. If you start brooding, she’s going to throw a chip at your forehead.”
“Tell her to try it,” I mutter.
Beck laughs. Then his voice dips, quieter. “How’s…everything?”
He doesn’t say Pops’s name.
He doesn’t have to.
I grip the wheel tighter. “It’s…bad. She’s still about the same as when you guys stopped by, if not worse.”
“Yeah,” Beck says gently. “I figured.”
The silence stretches, and the quiet is full of all the things I don’t know how to say without breaking.
Then Beck clears his throat. “So. Important question.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“If you get the call,” he says slowly, “from Chicago…what are you gonna do?”
There it is.
The question that keeps showing up like a shadow behind every moment of my life.
Because it isn’t just football.
It’s everything I built myself into.
And now my life is split in two—one side chasing the dream, the other side holding Sloane together with my bare hands.
“I don’t know,” I admit, voice tight.
Beck sighs. “Okay. I’m not judging. I’m just asking.”
