Page 12 of The Backup Plan

Because if I don’t, I can’t control the narrative. It’ll control me.

I take my sunglasses off and smile. “I’m here to play football.”

A few of them snort. Others push their microphones or phones closer, jostling for a better view.

A reporter with too much gel in his hair laughs. “At thirty-four after a shoulder reconstruction?”

I roll my shoulder instinctively. The motion sends a white-hot lance of pain straight through it. It’s sharp enough to make my vision blur for half a second, but I make sure my expression remains stoic.

I’ve been hiding pain for most of my career. Today will be no different.

“I’m not dead,” I say flatly earning a few more awkward chuckles. “And if you want to be technical about it, I’m closer to thirty-five than thirty-four.”

“So what’s your role going to be here with the Rebels? As a starter? A mentor? What?”

“Is this your farewell tour?”

“Why not retire with some dignity?”

Dignity.

Yeah. I had that once.

Back when I was the golden boy. Back when my arm was a weapon and not a liability. Back when my name still meant something that didn’t come with a question mark.

And while it came with an arrogance I could back up on the field, it also got me in a lot of fucking trouble.

I shift my feet. “You’re welcome to write whatever ending you want. Rest assured I’ll outdo it. My career’s not finished yet.”

And without answering another question, I give a camera-worthy smile and head toward the entrance, leaving them scrambling behind.

Inside the lobby, everything smells like polish and ambition. Let’s hope it smells like winning sooner than later.

The walls are still bare in places, as if the team is waiting to earn the right to fill them with memorabilia from championships. I like that. It feels honest.

A young guy in Rebels gear spots me instantly and jogs toward me.

“Lucas Hale,” he breathes like he’s saying a legend’s name out loud.

It does my ego good. I give him a nod. “That’s me.”

“Tyler.” He reaches out and I shake the hand he offers. “I’m in charge of . . . a lot of things.” He chuckles nervously. “We’re glad to have you.”

“Glad to be here.”

He stares at me for a split second, like he forgot what he was going to say, and then he grabs his clipboard again with both hands like it’s his lifeline to settle his nerves. “Coach Brooks is expecting you.” He starts walking and then looks back and realizes he forgot to tell me to follow him. “I’ll take you to the locker room.”

“Sounds good.”

We weave our way through offices—marketing, operations, customer service, player development—and then toward places I’ll frequent. The film review room. Travel. Uniform.

We turn a corner when a man steps out of a large corner office with glass walls to our right. Tailored suit. Calm smile. And an even bigger reputation.

Grant Walker, the Rebels general manager.

“Lucas,” he says, already extending his hand. His grip is firm. Professional. Appreciative. “Great to finally have you here. Truly. This team needs leadership and your experience to help guide it.”

I nod. “Happy to help and contribute to the program and team.”