These guys weren’t just teammates — they were the two people I trusted not to sell me out. Even without this heavy truth between us, they’d believed me when it mattered.
Believed in me on and off the field.
We ran drill after drill, Dustin snagging impossible catches, Noah charging like he was already playing for a pro team, me testing the limits of a shoulder I pretended was fine. By the time Coach blew the whistle, sweat was running into my eyes and my chest burned — but for once, the ache in my body was better than the one in my head.
We walked off the field together, bumping shoulders, shoving, laughing at nothing. Just three guys on the same team, no whispers, no shadows, no weight pressing down.
And I realized — I needed this. Not the cameras. Not the boosters. Not even the championship glow still clinging to the program.
Just this.
Football was hard work, but it was also the one place where the world made sense. Right now, that was enough.
And for the week I’d had, that was a hell of a lot.
The locker room was a wall of steam and noise, the hiss of showers mixing with the echo of laughter bouncing off tile. I dumped my helmet onto the bench, dragging my jersey over my head and wincing when my shoulder caught.
“Thought you said it was fine,” Noah said, one brow arched as he dropped onto the bench beside me.
“Itisfine,” I muttered, reaching for my tape.
“Yeah,” he said with a snort, “and I’m a ballerina.”
Dustin strolled up, towel slung around his neck, shaking his head. “You two sound like an old married couple.”
“Better than sounding like you,” I shot back.
He smirked. “I don’t hear anyone complaining.”
Noah chuckled low, but his eyes stayed on me. Not mocking. Not pressing. Just... watching. The kind of watching that said he was loyal first, but would ask questions later.
Dustin wasn’t so subtle. “So,” he started, leaning back against the lockers, arms folded. “You gonna tell us why you really skipped dinner last night and stole my candy?”
Noah smiled but didn’t say anything.
I blew out a slow breath, knotting the tape tighter than I should’ve, hissing when I pulled it off. “Ow.”
Dustin’s eyes narrowed as he watched. “Just go to the PT, get a treatment. They’ll wrap you up properly.”
“Can’t,” I muttered, tape in between my teeth. “Lost the privilege of jumping the waiting list.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Dustin muttered. “Coach Hembry!”
“Dust, shut the fuck up, man,” I growled at him.
“Slater?” T.J. Hembry looked at us from across the room. “What?”
“QB10 needs PT,” he told him easily. “That shoulder isn’t sitting right.”
“Yeah,” Noah piped up, without looking up, scrolling through his phone. “It’s not got as much power as it should.”
Coach Hembry walked over, his clipboard under his arm. He reached up and probed my joint, noting when I flinched slightly. “Why are they telling me, and not you?” he asked quietly.
“I put my name on the treatment form,” I told him easily. “I’m just waiting for my turn. It’s all good.”
“Waiting—” He looked at me with understanding. “Jesus Christ, you’re a stubborn idiot. Move now.” He walked away, and I shot a death glare at my two friends, who both grinned back at me.
I hurried after my coach, out of the locker room, down the white hallway to the PT wing, not caring I was in a practice shirt and pants. My cleats clicked against the tile.
