“Mostly.” Lincoln’s smile was assessing. “I hear you’re looking at athletic training programs. Smart field. We need more people who understand players’ bodies as well as they understand the game.”
We crowded around the table, elbows bumping, everyone reaching for bread at the same time. Nixon had brought wine, and John had made some kind of roast that turned out better than it had any right to. Voices overlapped, nobody waiting for permission to speak.
Seth sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched under the table. He talked to Lincoln about training techniques and to Nixon about the Breakers’ conditioning program. He made John laugh with a story about a disastrous group project, and he held his own when Hunter grilled him about the Gray Wolves’ chances at a bowl bid.
“Your secondary’s been solid,” Hunter said, pointing his fork at Seth. “But that offensive line needs work.”
“Tell me about it. Marcus has been running for his life half the season.”
“Marcus is good. You’re good. Just need the protection to match.”
I watched them talk, watched Seth lean into the conversation without hesitation. This was what I’d been missing—not just Seth, not just Hunter, but all of it together. People who showed up for each other.
He fit. That was what kept hitting me—how easily he slotted into this group. No awkwardness, no strain. He just belonged.
After dinner, we moved to the living room. Hunter started a fire in the fireplace, and we sprawled across the furniture with full stomachs and drinks in hand.
“So,” Lincoln said, turning to me. “Hunter tells me you’ve been making progress on your prototype.”
“Good progress. I’ve got strong data on force distribution—lab results are promising. The next step is figuring out how to test it under game conditions.”
“That’s always the gap, isn’t it? What works in controlled environments versus what survives Saturday afternoon.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about it.”
I looked at Seth. He gave me an encouraging nod.
“The basic concept is a multi-layer padding system with variable density,” I said. “Standard helmets use uniform padding, which means they’re optimized for either high-impact hits or cumulative sub-concussive trauma, but not both. My design uses overlapping layers of different materials?—”
“Each calibrated to absorb force at different impact velocities,” Lincoln finished. “Patrick mentioned you wanted to work on something like this.”
My throat closed around Dad’s name. “He did?”
“Last time we talked. Before—” Lincoln’s expression flickered. “He was proud of you, Tanner. He knew you were going to do something important.”
Seth’s hand found mine on the couch cushion. He laced our fingers together, not seeming to care who saw.
“I brought my laptop,” I managed. “I can show you the data.”
The next hour was a blur of graphs and spreadsheets. Lincoln asked sharp questions about my methodology, my sample sizes, and my assumptions. He pointed out weaknesses I hadn’t considered and strengths I’d been too close to see. By the time we finished, I had three pages of notes and the first real sense of direction I’d felt in months.
“This is good work,” Lincoln said. “Really good. You’ve got the foundation for something that could change the industry.”
“That’s the goal.” I closed my laptop. “The challenge now is getting it out of the lab and into someone’s hands who can manufacture it at scale.”
“I’ve got a contact at Riddell. One of their R&D directors. I think he’d be interested in seeing this.”
My heart kicked hard. “You’re serious?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. No promises—corporate innovation moves slowly. But getting your work in front of the right people is how this happens.”
“I’d appreciate that. More than I can say.”
“Patrick would have moved mountains for this.” Lincoln smiled. “The least I can do is make a phone call.”
Later,after Lincoln and Nixon had gone and Hunter and John had headed to bed, I found Seth on the balcony outside our guestroom.
He was leaning against the railing, looking toward the beach. The moon had risen, and if you positioned yourself just right, you could see it glinting off the waves rolling onto the shore. Somewhere in the marsh, a night heron called.
“Hey,” I said, sliding up beside him.
