She hadn’t looked at me at all.
“Yo.” Noah nudged me with his helmet. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out rougher than I wanted. “Locked in.”
“Cool. You’re making that face again, like someone kicked your puppy and ran off with your bike.”
“Thanks, man.”
He grinned and jogged ahead, but not before patting my shoulder pad with that knowing, annoying-best-friend energy. He was right though. I wasn’t locked in. I was spiraling.
Because I’d been a dick to her. Not because I was angry, but because I was hurt. And yeah, maybe it felt justified at the time, but hearing her lay everything out this morning—professional, clear, brave as hell—I knew I’d fucked up. She wasn’t pushing me away because she didn’t care. She was doing it because she did.
If it were my job on the line, I probably would've done the same thing. Backed off. Shut down. Tried to keep it clean.
Now I hadto suit up and focus, knowing she was out there carrying the weight of both of us.
We were tiedat twenty-seven with over a minute left on the clock. Fourth quarter. No time-outs. The stadium throbbed with noise—waves of sound crashing through the turf and into my spine. Every movement felt like it was underwater, too slow and too loud all at once.
Coach called zone left. Basic. Safe. But I could barely hear it over the pulse in my ears.
Quinn looked at me. “You good?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. My chest was tight. My ribs burned. But I needed this. I’d refused to quit, even now.
You can do this. One more play. One more minute.I pleaded with my body. Begged.
We broke the huddle.
Helmet down. Feet light. Eyes scanning.
Snap.
I followed Noah’s block, ducked my shoulder, and drove forward. The first hit came low. I bounced off it. The second hit knocked the breath out of my lungs. The third took my feet. I didn’t see the ground coming—I felt the thud vibrate up through my spine when I hit it.
The world went fuzzy at the edges. I blinked. Once. Twice. Static clung to the corners of my vision.
Get up.
I pushed to my feet, the field spinning for a second before leveling out. Ten more yards. One more play.
I didn’t look at the sideline. I didn’t want to see Ivy’s face or Sloane’s clipboard or Mac’s eyes locked on me like I was about to fail.
Coach signaled the next play—same call. Inside zone.
We lined up.
This time, the hole opened perfectly.
I slipped through and drove my legs like hell was behind me. A defender dove, clipped my knee, and I stumbled across the line—shoulder first—into the end zone.
Touchdown.
I stayed down for a second, staring at the sky.
The scoreboard flashed. Crowd roared.
We won.
