Second play, I lined up again. Took the ball. Cut left. Spun. Got slammed by the safety. I landed hard, not bad enough to flag. But when I stood, the air in my lungs didn’t feel full.
I walked back to the huddle. Slow. Not slow enough for someone to notice. But enough for me to notice.
Jordan slapped my helmet. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t believe me. But he nodded and turned to Quinn.
Third and short. Booth called a fake inside, motion toss. I sold the block, released wide. The ball hit my hands. I turned upfield. Five yards. Seven. The crowd roared.
I smiled through it, but my vision blurred for a second. Then it was back. Fuck, there wasn’t much game left, and 29 was shit-talking me so much I wanted to show him.
Back on the sideline, I grabbed my water and sat down. My heart was still racing. William came over.
“Rate?”
I nodded. “Up.”
He glanced at the monitor clipped to my chest pad. “You need to sit a bit.”
“I’m fine. Promise, Doc. Just ran hard. That motherfucker is coming for me.” I pointed to Jarrett Jay, the nastiest dude in the league who made it his mission to come after me. I had no idea why, but I needed to beat him.
William hesitated, then nodded. “If the heart rate doesn’t come down after this play, you’re out. You got me?”
I nodded, annoyed he didn’t understand the pressure and severity of this game.
Sloane stepped in a moment later, crouching in front of me with her wide eyes and perfect lips. Her tablet was still in herhand, but she wasn’t reading it. She looked at me—really looked—and I hated that her face broke.
“Talk to me,” she said quietly. “Something’s not right.”
“I feel a little off but okay enough to continue.”
“Your recovery time’s slipping. You’re redder than you were in the second quarter. And William logged a higher spike than you’ve had in two weeks.”
“Let me finish the game.” I stood, sweating pouring down my face. “I’m good to finish the game, Doctor Mercer.”
She held my gaze for a second longer than I could stand. Then she nodded once, but I could see the fracture in her expression.
“One more drive,” she said. “If your numbers don’t hold, you sit. Agreed?”
I nodded. William said the same thing, but they both knew I was lying.
I didn’t lie because I wanted to. I lied because I needed to finish this game. I couldn’t be the guy who made it and then quit. I didn’t want to be seen as a failure or weak or the guy who they couldn’t count on. My sister was in the suite...Jarrett was after me…we had to win. I had something to prove, not only to myself but to others who doubted me, the ones who thought me a liability.
I went back in the next run. Booth didn’t question it. Quinn didn’t either.
We drove fast. Three passes. Two runs. The defense looked winded, but Jay wasn’t. He was still keyed in—tight coverage, closing space like he had something to prove.
Then came the play.
Second and five. Ball on the 37. Booth called a zone read. I shifted left of Quinn. We snapped fast—faster than the last set. I took the handoff, planted, and cut inside.
Jay saw it.
He broke off the edge and closed the gap fast. I hit the hole low and drove forward, lowering my shoulder to protect the ball. He hit me high. Right under the chin strap. Clean but hard. I stayed upright and powered through it.
Ten yards.
