“Listen to that crowd,” he says, his voice gruff and loud enough to cut through the nerves buzzing under my skin.“Let it get into your blood.Let it fuel you.Take a second.Look up there to see who showed up tonight.They came because they believe in you.”
I breathe through my nose before scanning the bleachers.
There.
Right in the middle, same seats as always.Noah.Aubrey tucked into his side, head leaning just enough to show they’re solid.And next to them is Red.
High ponytail.Face locked in that stare she has when she’s moments from shutting someone down with her words.And damn, she’s gorgeous.Even with that don’t-fuck-with-me look carved across her face.
Beside her, Lola is blowing bubbles with bubblegum as if she’s sitting through a math test instead of a game that might determine the rest of my future.
Jace’s seat is empty, and it feels wrong.He’s always there—usually stealing half of Lola’s food, running his mouth, pretending he doesn’t care who wins.Seeing that space sit empty, even when I’m still mad at him, hits harder than it should.
The whistle blows, pulling me back onto the field.The boys jog over.Before I can step forward fully, Coach’s hand presses down on my shoulder.It’s strong.Solid.A weight meant to ground me.
He looks me straight in the eye.
“I believe in you, kid.”
When he releases, I put my helmet on and sprint across the field, heart pounding.The crowd roars around us, a wall of noise and heat, and the boys are already hyped, shouting, slapping helmets, ready to go all out.
The first quarter kicks off with fire under my feet.
I’m locked in from the first whistle, every nerve firing, every muscle tuned.I don’t just move; I hunt.Fast, aggressive, reading plays before they develop.My cleats rip across the turf, and every time the quarterback thinks he’s got a second too long, I’m already in his face, pushing past the line, teeth bared, body low.
First snap, I break through and hit him hard enough to make the crowd roar.On the second drive, I shut down a run that should’ve gone somewhere.Instead, it goes nowhere.I drag the guy down by the waist and bounce back up before the ref can even blow the whistle.
Every time there's a hit, it gets a cheer.
Every stop causes the bleachers to shake.
I hear my name shouted—once, twice, louder—chanting, “Wilson.Wilson.Wilson.”
It doesn’t even seem real.
But I don’t stop.
I’m chasing every loose ball, barking orders, rallying the line as if it’s my damn war to win.Coach is screaming from the sidelines, fist pumping.My teammates slap my helmet between plays, yelling shit I don’t even register.
And then it happens.
West goes down hard.
One second, he’s charging shoulder-first into the line.The next, he’s crumpled on the turf, clutching his knee, his face twisted in a way that makes my stomach turn.The whole crowd inhales sharply.Silence falls over the field like a heavy blanket.He tries to get up but can't.
And just like that, the guy the scout came to see is finished for the night.
They help him limp to the sideline, his cleats dragging.It hits hard.West isn’t only the best on defense; he’s my teammate, and he wanted this as badly as I do.
When play starts again, I don’t slow down.I flip the switch.Lock in harder.Hit meaner.Because fuck, if he stayed and still is watching?
I’ll be everything he came for—everything he lost when the second West dropped.I’ll leave him no choice but to notice.
And if this is my shot?
I’m fucking taking it.
Second quarter, I fucking snap.
