He stopped and turned, scanning the group. “We prepped, we prepared, and we practiced. Now get out there and make it hurt.”
Booth turned back toward the field and gave a quick, sharp nod to the staff at the tunnel’s mouth. The line shifted. We were up.
Ivy stood near the entrance, hands on her hips, radio clamped to her shoulder. Her gaze swept over me once, then again. She didn’t ask questions. She nodded, and that was encouragement enough for me.I can do this. I will do this.
I stood, waiting for my name to be called to the fans, where I’d run onto the field. My body hummed with energy, nerves and fear combining into a sick mixture that made me feel like I was gonna throw up. Fuck, what if--
“OLIVER JAMES,” the announcer boomed over the speakers, and the roar of the crowd hit like impact.
Fire ignited at the tunnel’s edges. Flames shot upward in synchronized bursts, and the entire roster surged forward in thetunnel, allowing me to break into a sprint, Noah chanted behind me, yelling something I didn’t fully hear but felt anyway.
My lungs burned already. Not from the run. From the pressure.
This was the moment. The debut. The everything and my chest didn’t feel right. I kept running. My feet hit the turf in perfect rhythm. My form was clean. My speed was solid. But something inside me stayed jagged. Pulled. Tight in the worst possible way.
Noah reached the sideline and smacked his chest twice, nodding toward the crowd with a grin.
I slowed next to him, eyes tracking the scoreboard, the field, the formation crew, anything but Sloane. Anything but the place where I’d left all my fears buried under too many layers.
“Hey,” Noah said again, quieter now. “You with me, James?”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed my helmet and pulled it down because I was about to walk into everything I’d worked for—even if I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
That was when I saw her.
Sloane stood near the twenty-yard line, behind the line of staffers and interns with clipboards. Her hair was pulled back tighter than usual, the breeze catching a few strands near her temple. She wore a Rampage quarter zip and black pants. No hat. No headset. She had the laminated field pass clipped to her hip and the tablet in her hand.
She scanned the formation once, slowly, like she was logging every detail. Then her eyes landed on me, and my breath caught in my throat for a different reason. She was fucking beautiful, smart, and I dragged my gaze down to her shoes—the custom flower Converse she told me about, and I smiled. Her eyes twinkled, and I about tripped over my feet when she winked at me. It was so playful, so fun, that it reminded me of the woman in my apartment who snorted and laughed with me. It was whatI needed to pull my head out of my ass and try to enjoy this moment.
We finished the half tied.Jordan pulled in a one-handed grab on the next drive. Quinn found Ty in the flat for a third down. I took two more runs for short gains. The rhythm held. I held.
Barely.
The second the clock hit zero, I didn’t wait. I jogged for the tunnel, helmet tucked under one arm, vision vibrating at the edges. The stadium noise faded behind me, but it didn’t get quieter.
Jordan jogged beside me, grinning, drenched in sweat, shaking my shoulders with a wild expression. The worry I had for him disappeared. He was playing his ass off and doing well—thankfully. He channeled his grief well, and if I wasn’t focusing on hanging on myself, I’d tell him how proud I was of him.
Noah clapped my back. I nodded, still pushing forward, desperately wanting to sit for a few minutes and settle.
Head down, focused, I marched toward the locker room when someone reached out and grabbed my arm. Sloane’s slim fingers closed on my forearm, and I stilled, taken aback from her touch but grateful for it. I stilled, meeting her worried gaze. “Hey, I’m good,” I rasped out, my voice slightly cracking.
“Oliver,” she replied, her mouth tightening as her eyes filled with concern. She opened her pretty mouth to say more, but I shook her off. I couldn’t do this now.
“Doc, I’m good,” I said louder and shrugged away from her touch. If I stayed near her, I’d confess everything—the fear, the terror, the fact my vision danced with white spots even as I stood there. “Mark that in your tablet, got it?”
I used halftime to settle. I’d had a million tricks to fool myself into thinking I was fine. I’d put on music, and I’d breathe a certain way. I needed ice and heat and a cold drink. I went through all the motions, and by the time Booth barked at us to win every inch, the second half started.
The second half opened with noise so loud I felt it in my ribs.
We drove again on the next series. Quick passes. Short gains. I chipped block twice and took one sweep for five. Every burst of speed cost more than it should have.
Fourth quarter. Four minutes left. Red zone again. Down three. We needed the drive.
Quinn barked a code—one we hadn’t run since preseason. It was mine.
I lined up wide, reset motion, and took the screen after a fake slant. Their linebacker came at me full speed. I ducked left, bounced off the edge, and spun upfield. The corner met me at the five.
I didn’t stop. I dropped my shoulder, took the hit, and drove forward. Legs burning. Chest burning. Everything burned. I pushed over the line.
