A knee presses into the turf beside me. Time fractures a bit. Then suddenly the space around me opens, bodies parting fast, urgently.
I know that walk. Even before I see him.
Silas.
He’s there in my line of sight now, face tight and pale, eyes blown wide with something that looks nothing like coaching calm. He’s saying my name—myname, not Maddox—and it cuts through the fog sharper than the hit did.
“Luke. Don’t move.”
He goes in and out of focus, his words muffled.
“I’m good,” I insist, trying to erase the worry on his face, even as the world tilts when I try to lift my head. “I can?—”
A stretcher appears in my peripheral vision.
That’s when I realize this isn’t nothing.
Hands steady my shoulders, putting a neck brace on me. Someone checks my pupils. Someone else is talking about protocol and evaluation and not taking chances.
Silas is still right there. Close enough that I can see the way his jaw is clenched so hard it might crack.
“Hey,” I mumble, trying to smile up at him, trying to make this smaller than it feels. “I’m okay. It’s just a small hit.”
The last thing I register before they start strapping me down is his hand gripping the edge of the stretcher—white-knuckled, shaking.
And the look in his eyes that says he’s already somewhere else. Somewhere bad. Then they start to lift me. And everything goes sideways.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SILAS
It’s a safe play.
That’s what I tell myself as I call it in. Short yardage. Low risk. Control the clock, settle the tempo, protect the team.
It’s the kind of play I’d call a hundred times.
Until now.
Until I’m watching number twenty-two line up, glancing toward the sideline out of habit. Something softer I can’t afford to name in front of the team.
He looks right at me.
God, he’s beautiful. Focused. Sharp. My heart lifts—and then the ball snaps.
And the world ends.
The hit is violent. Sudden. Too fast for me to process until I hear that sound—thatsound cracking across the field. That gut-twisting, neck-snapping,bone-crackingsound that I’ve heard before in the worst fucking moment of my life.
Luke crumples.
I don’t breathe.
He doesn’t move.
My headset crackles with voices—Coach Harris saying something from the booth, players shouting, whistles echoing. None of it matters.
Because I’m already running.
