Right now, it’s the snap count in my head and the target in front of me.I read the offense, track every twitch in the line, plant my feet, and hit harder than the asshole across from me expects.I move with purpose, fists clenched, jaw tight.Out here, I don’t question anything.Don’t second-guess.It’s the one place I don’t feel fucked up, too much, or not enough.Out here, I just am.Solid.Ruthless.Grounded as hell.And for three perfect seconds, that’s everything.
By the time practice ends, I’m a complete mess.Muscles trembling.Sweat soaked through every layer.My ribs ache, my shoulders hurt, and my legs feel like concrete blocks.My helmet hits the locker with a clang, and I peel off my pads, skin burning where the fabric’s rubbed raw.
The hot water hits me in the shower, and I almost groan, leaning into it.Letting it slam into the back of my neck, shoulders, spine.My breath drags in slowly.Controlled.I count it out, trying to pull myself back into my body.
Then it hits me.
A memory from a few days ago.Sam in my shower, bare and dripping, steam curling around her hair, eyes locked on mine.The way her mouth parted when I ran the soap over her skin.The sound she made when I pressed her against the tile.The scratch of her nails down my back.How she tasted when I kissed her under the spray.I fucking hate how easily my mind goes there.How desperate it still is to live inside the seconds we stole.
I rest my forehead against the wall and mutter a string of curses under my breath.
Get it fucking together, asshole.
I stay in the shower longer than I should.Long enough for the noise to fade.Half the guys are already gone, and the locker room smells more like soap than sweat.
I turn off the water, towel off, and put on clean clothes.
I stuff my things into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door, eager to get the hell out of here.
I’m nearly past the Coach’s office when I hear it.
“Reece.”
One word, and my spine snaps straight as if it’s been yanked into place.I halt mid-step and turn my head just enough to see Coach through the open door.He’s behind the desk, face unreadable.
“Come in and close the door.”
Fuck.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag as I step through the door.One look at Coach’s face, and I realize this isn’t about missing a block or half-assing a drill.This is deeper.
I already know what this is.
It has to be my old man.
This town can’t keep its mouth shut for shit.Yesterday, I was shooting hoops behind the school with Noah and Jace, and some guy I’ve never talked to said, “Heard you had a killer game last week.”
So yeah.The rumors are out.
The comeback.The stats.The whispers.
And my father, sure as shit, wouldn’t ask me.He’d go straight to Coach and act like he’s proud.Pretend he actually gives a fuck.
It wouldn’t be the first time he crawled out of his hole when football gave him a reason to care.When I made him look good enough to talk about in bars.
Coach knows everything about it.Every flaw in that history.He’s the one who told me to stop giving my future to a man who only shows up to control it.
“Play for you,” he had told me.“Not for a ghost that’s still breathing.”
And I’m trying.Damn, I’m trying.But ghosts have long arms.And my old man still has a grip around my fucking throat.
“You’ve been putting in the work.”Coach says.“You’re not coasting.”
“I didn’t come back to coast.”
He grunts.His chair creaks as he leans back, studying me.“Your old man know you’re back?”
My jaw clenches before I answer.“I don’t know.Probably.”I don’t add that he wouldn’t ask me if I was playing.
