The words landed hard, precise, and something in my chest shifted—not relief, not calm, but direction.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice steady despite the pressure buzzing through me.
Booth clapped a hand on my shoulder, the contact firm and reassuring. “We’ll talk after the game,” he added. “I’ve got resources for you. Legal, personal, whatever you need.” His eyes met mine again, unwavering. “No one on our team handles things alone. You know this. So play hard, channel that rage, then we’ll brainstorm a plan. You got me, Abbott?”
For a second, I couldn’t speak. I nodded once instead, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. To hear his support…that meant a lot. I’d been carrying out so much of this alone for a while now. My life the last few months had been so isolating, and to have Booth and Em on my team? It felt good.
As I turned back toward the locker room, the noise rushed in again, louder now, but it didn’t overwhelm me. The anger was still there. The worry was too. But now it had a place to go.
And I was ready to put it there.
The walk from the tunnel to the field stripped everything else away.
Crowd noise crashed over me in uneven waves, the turf bright and clean under stadium lights, the air sharper than it had been during warmups. I dropped into position without thinking, left hand brushing the grass, right foot settling behind my left. The snap count came in steady through my helmet, and for the first time since I woke up, my head went quiet.
First drive, they tested us exactly like Booth said they would.
Second-and-long, they showed a standard four-man front, then walked the linebacker up late like he was coming through the B-gap. I called it out, short and sharp, and adjusted my stance a half inch wider. At the snap, the defensive tackle tried to bull rush straight through my chest.
I absorbed it, hands inside, elbows tight, legs driving. He was strong, but strength alone didn’t win these reps. Technique did. I planted, and he lost leverage. I felt the moment he tried to spin out and failed.
The quarterback had time. That mattered.
They came again the next series, this time with a twist. End crashed hard inside, tackle looped around, hoping to catch me flat-footed. I passed the first guy off clean, slid laterally, and met the looper square, hands snapping into place like muscle memory had been waiting for this exact look.
I finished the block through the whistle, driving him back until he hit the ground.
That was when the anger started workingwithme instead of against me.
By the end of the first quarter, they’d stopped trying finesse. Everything was power now—bull rushes, hands to the chest, shoulder through the ribs. I welcomed it. Every collision burned something off, each snap stripping away another layer of the panic that had followed me into the stadium.
Midway through the second quarter, we hit a critical third-and-short near midfield.
The call came in quick. Power run to the right. My assignment was simple: down block, seal the interior, don’t let the tackle cross my face. The guy lined up across from me was heavier than me by at least twenty pounds, arms long, eyes already locked on my chest.
The snap hit my hands, and I fired low. The protective urge for Miles became the protective urge to defend Quinn.
I got under him, hips driving, shoulder into his sternum. He tried to anchor, feet digging into the turf, but I kept my legs churning, kept my head down, kept moving. He gave ground inch by inch until the hole opened exactly where it was supposed to.
The back hit it clean and picked up the first.
Jordan slapped my helmet as we reset. “That’s it,” he yelled. “Do it again.”
I nodded once, breathing hard, sweat pouring down my face. Channeling my frustration, rage, feelings of unfairness to protecting the QB became my sole purpose when the clock was ticking.
Halftime came and went without ceremony. I didn’t check my phone. I didn’t need to. Everything I needed was on the field right now.
They adjusted in the second half, bringing pressure off the edge, trying to collapse the pocket faster. I stayed disciplined,eyes up, hands ready. One snap, the end tried a speed rush, dipping low to get around me.
I kicked out, met him with my outside hand, and rode him past the quarterback’s launch point. The ball left clean. Completion downfield.
Another snap, they tried to overload my side with a delayed blitz. I saw it, called it, and widened my base enough to catch the linebacker as he came through. He hit me hard, helmet snapping back, but I absorbed it and kept my feet.
The quarterback stepped up and threw a dart into the end zone.
Touchdown.
Late in the fourth, the game tightened. One-score difference. Crowd loud enough to vibrate my helmet. My thighs burned, lungs screaming, hands shaking between snaps. We had to do this. Anger surged through my veins, thoughts of my parents trying to take Miles from me. I refused to allow it. He wasminenow.
