I do the block perfectly. Aggressive. Almost angry. I break free and cut inside.
This time I catch it.
But it feels forced. Like I muscled the play instead of letting it happen.
Jax jogs past me on the way back to the huddle, eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he says, not unkind. “Earth to Cam. You good?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
He slows just enough to look at me. “You sure?”
I don’t answer. Just reset my stance.
I can feel it now. The way the field doesn’t quite fit today.
Headlines flicker through my head between snaps.
Calculated. Strategic. Distraction.
Lila’s face this morning. Quiet. Guarded. The way she looked at her phone and pulled inward like she’d touched something sharp.
The snap count starts again.
I drop my focus low. Feet. Hands. Assignment.
The ball comes my way and I secure it clean this time, tucking it in and driving forward like contact might knock the thoughts loose.
It doesn’t.
As I jog back to the line, chest tight, one thing is painfully clear.
I’m on the field.
But I’m not fully here.
And that's how people get hurt.
I retreat to the far end of the bench the second Coach calls water.
Helmet comes off. I bend forward, forearms on my knees, breathing through my mouth like that might quiet the noise in my head.
It doesn’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second.
Bad move.
All I see is Lila behind my eyelids.
I straighten and grab my bottle.
Naturally, that’s when they descend.
Devon drops onto the bench beside me, solid and silent. Hunter stops in front of me, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, head tilted like he’s waiting for a confession.
Jax sprawls onto the grass at my feet, arms behind his head, looking entirely too comfortable.
I take a long pull of water and keep my eyes on the field.
