Page 11 of The Backup Plan

Lucas

The Texas heat rises with the sun like a vengeance.

It’s thick. Heavy. Oppressive. Like it’s trying to smother me and tell me I don’t belong here.

It remains to be seen if I do.

It’s not like the city rolled out a warm welcome if last night’s events are any indication of how it feels.

Emery.

Snippets of last night, of this morning, flash through my mind as the driver the team sent for me barrels through Austin’s downtown toward the Lone Star Rebels training facility.

She was so fucking pale when I left her. Her chin was held high with pride, but her trembling fingers showed she was scared of what could have been. Understandably.

But I can’t think of that now. Can’t think of her now. I did my good deed, and now I need to forget it happened, step into this new role with this new team, and earn my spot on the final fifty-three-man roster.

And if the reporters blowing up my phone are any indication, word is out. Lucas Hale is officially at the Lone Star Rebels training camp.

“Almost there,” the driver says as I scrub a hand over my newly shaven face. It feels weird after a few months with a beard, but superstition is superstition, and I always start every season clean-shaven. “Word is there’s some reporters waiting for you.”

Someone must have tipped them off that I was headed in. Either my agent or the team. Maybe both.

At least they still think I’m newsworthy, right?

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.

“Sure thing. You’ll get a great view of the facility in a few seconds when we clear this hill. It’s magnificent. They’ve really gone all out on it.”

And he’s right. When it comes into view, I’m impressed.

Steel. Glass. An angular, behemoth of a structure that serves as the Rebels headquarters. To the right of the building is a real grass football field that’s between the main offices and an indoor practice facility for when the weather gets too hot. New money and new promises wrapped around an NFL expansion team with only one year under its belt. And that one, underwhelming year means that despite how fancy this place is, no one—not the talking heads on television, not the armchair quarterbacks at home, not a majority of the fans in the stands—expect anything from it.

The brand-new home of second chances and long shots.

It seems I’ll fit right in.

That’s the plan anyway. But this is my fourteenth preseason camp I’ve been to, and for some reason, the nerves hit a little harder this time around.

With a yawn and a yearning for another cup of coffee, we drive through the complex’s gates. Within seconds, the entryway and the media that’s camped out there come into view.

The driver pulls the car up to the curb and before I can even grab my gear back and close the car door, the reporters descend on me.

“Lucas Hale!”

I draw in a fortifying breath and head into the melee.

“Why the Rebels?”

“Is this a one-season publicity stunt?”

“Are you actually cleared to play?”

“What do you say to those who’ve said you’re washed up?”

Washed up. Oof. That one hurt. But not any harder than the heat or the ache in my shoulder that’s been a steady, brutal pulse for what feels like years.

I hold up my hand to wave. Cameras flash. Mics are shoved into my face. I stop walking, not because I have to, but because it’s important for me to look them in the eye when I answer.