I push off the floor and grab a clean mug from the cupboard—another cracked one from Mari’s shop—and fill it with tea. Steam curls upward as I carry it to the couch and sit, tucking my feet underneath me.
Nothing happened.
I handled it.
Just like always.
But as I sit here, trailing my finger along the cracked ceramic, one thought lingers stubbornly in the back of my mind.
I didn’t like being alone out there tonight.
And I hate that I noticed.
9
SHEPHERD
The stadium in Omaha hums like a living beast with eighty thousand beating hearts. It’s low at first. A steady vibration that rattles your molars and trembles under the concrete and weathered steel. Then it crescendos as kickoff approaches like tsunami waves of sound crashing against the chipped paint of the tunnel walls as we line up. Our cleats click on the cement as we prepare to run into the blinding sun.
I adjust my worn leather gloves slowly and deliberately. Left first, then right, tugging each finger until the seams align perfectly with my knuckles.
Because routine matters.
Routine quiets my mind.
It centers me.
“Hey, Haynes,” Jake Ward says, nudging my shoulder pad with his scarred knuckles. “You’ve been staring at the grass since we got here. You good or should I ask Coach to call in your replacement?”
“I’m visualizing,” I say, tasting the mint of my mouthguard.
“Looks to me like you’re procrastinating.”
“Same thing.”
He laughs, a sharp bark that cuts through the roar. Jake thrives on chaos. He feeds off the electricity of sixty minutes on the clock. But I thrive on order, the mathematical certainty of a perfectly executed play. It’s why we work well together. Coach walks past, his face creased with game-day concentration, claps me once on the shoulder pads, and gives me the same instruction he does every game day.
“Keep them steady today.”
Not move them faster.
Not be louder.
Just keep them steady.
That’s my job.
And I’m damn good at my job.
Kickoff is at one and the first drive is messy. The crowd noise is louder than expected, a physical wall of sound that makes my cadence inaudible beyond three yards. There’s a false start from Orry followed by a dropped pass that hits Maxwell’s hands like a bullet before falling dead on the turf.
The huddle forms before our next play, a tight circle of sweat-soaked jerseys. Bennett’s jaw flexes as he mutters “goddammit” through clenched teeth. Kyler’s eyes roll skyward beneath his helmet, a vein pulsing at his temple. Boone’s massive shoulders bunch like a bull’s, his nostrils flaring with each exhale.
I step between them, planting my cleats in the trampled grass.
“Reset,” I say, voice low enough that only our circle hears it. It’s no inspirational speech and there’s no pounding of chests. Just that single word hanging in the steam of our collective breath and they know exactly what I’m saying. Their eyes lock onto mine, ten gazes steadying. The heaving chests slow and the twitching fingers still. Even the roaring stadium blurs into background static.
We break and settle into formation. The ball slides into my palm, leather warm and familiar. Linemen hold firm, creating a pocket of stillness while chaos erupts around us. I feel time stretch as I step forward, eyes cataloging the defensive coverage and then the ball spirals from my fingertips.
