OLIVER
The locker room buzzed with energy. Bass rattled through the walls from the speaker someone parked in the corner. Cleats scraped tile. Lockers slammed. Players yelled over each other—half-barking, half-laughing—covering the nerves with noise. It smelled like old sweat and new tape, antiseptic and heat baked into the walls. I fucking loved this feeling. The locker room was where I felt at home, with the guys and the music and the nerves. I belonged here. I worked my way here.
Nowhere else made me feel like this, even if my heart rate was out of control.
I sat in front of my locker, elbows braced on my knees, pads already on, jersey hanging untouched beside me. My fingers hovered over the tape roll on the bench like it was supposed to fix something I couldn’t name. I hadn’t even started yet. My breath felt off. Not fast. Just wrong. Too shallow to calm anything. Too full to feel real.
Noah dropped down beside me, knees wide, posture easy. He didn’t say much. Never did before games.
“You good?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Fine,” I lied. I grabbed the tape, tearing it harder than I needed to. It gave my hands something to do. I didn’t want him to see they were shaking.
He didn’t press. Just nodded and leaned back like he believed me, even though he didn’t.
Ivy appeared a few seconds later, crouched low, one knee down, already pulling at the wrap I’d just finished. She said nothing at first as she worked the tape tighter, fingers precise.
“You’re bouncing,” she said under her breath. “Slow your breath. Focus.”
“I’m fine,” I said again, lower this time. She met my eyes for one second before standing, her gaze sharp and leaving no room for bullshit. She and I had been through a lot together, and she didn’t need to speak to tell me to get my shit together. She squeezed my shoulder, glared one more time, then moved onto someone else.
I used the breathing exercises that slowed down the racing pulse, focusing on in and out, praying.
Booth stepped into the center of the room. Nobody told the music to cut, but it stopped. Helmets froze mid-buckle. Guys turned to face him.
“This isn’t only a game,” Booth said, his voice even and strong. “It’s a test. Not of talent—we know you’ve got that. It’s composure. It’s what you do when the weight lands. Pressure is a goddamn privilege. You’ve earned it. Play like it belongs to you.”
Nobody clapped. Then Quinn hit his hands together once, loud and sharp. Everyone moved. I stood up. Pulled my jersey on. The material stuck slightly to my forearms. My gloves didn’t slide right. I flexed my fingers and breathed in slowly, focusing on curling my toes into my cleats. This was it. The moment I’d worked my entire life for. I clenched my jaw. Strapped on my helmet. Tugged the chin guard into place.
Booth raised his hand. The doors opened. Noise swelled through the cracks. Light spilled onto the floor ahead of us.
I stepped into the line.
I’d waited for this moment since I was ten, and my chest already felt like it was trying to talk me out of it.
The line formed in the tunnel like it always did. Quick. Tight. Bodies fell into familiar rhythm—jersey tugs, helmet checks, mouthguard snaps. The air changed the second the first name was called on the loudspeakers. Thicker. Hotter. Charged. Noise rolled in from the stadium like a wave you couldn’t dodge.
Quinn stood ahead of the pack, headset tilted, voice low but firm as he called out last-second adjustments. “Check protection. Don’t assume the edge is clean. We’ll open up mid-second.” His eyes scanned the group, sharp, intense. No one doubted him when he looked like that.
Jordan bounced in place, hood still up over his pads, music leaking from his left earbud. He rolled his neck once, then again, like he couldn’t hold still if he tried. “Let’s eat,” he muttered to no one and everyone.
Noah appeared next to me, massive frame wrapped in warm-up gear that didn’t hide a single ounce of power. He handed me a bottle without speaking and clapped my shoulder twice. “Drink. Your hands are shaking.”
I took the bottle. Didn’t respond. My throat was tight already. He was right.
He dropped back a step and stretched his arms overhead, like we weren’t thirty seconds from getting launched into a stadium of thousands. “You hear them yet? They’re louder than last season. Energy’s different.”
I nodded. Didn’t say a word.
Noah let out a low whistle. “You’re quiet. That means one of two things—you’re either about to go off, or you’re trying not to pass out.”
I exhaled and offered him half a shrug, grateful for him not pushing for more. I wasn’t sure when or how Noah had become such a good friend, but I reached out and hit his fist.Trusting and leaning on others seemed like a failure to me, but he made it easy.
He nudged me back, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna go with the first option for my own peace of mind. Go off out there, James. Make the Central State Alumni proud.”
Booth stalked the sideline edge of the tunnel, headset resting around his neck, his clipboard tucked against his ribs. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to because his presence was loud enough.
“You get one shot to make an opening statement,” he said, pacing slow. “Make it clear. Make it aggressive. Make it something they’ll remember next week.”
