Page 123 of The Backup Plan

“I know why you call. I know you’re scared it could be you. An injury, a bad season, a wrong turn and suddenly you’re in his shoes. No drive. No plan. That understandable craving for the limelight but no one wants to shine it on you anymore. The feeling like you no longer matter when people stop recognizing you on the street. No idea how you got there.”

“That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” she says. “And that’s okay.”

I lean my shoulder against the cool concrete wall.

“It’s okay to be scared by it and not know what comes next. But the fact that you see it? That you’re paying attention? That means you won’t let it happen to you.”

I clear my throat. How does she know? “I just don’t want to wake up one day and realize football was the only thing I ever was.”

But isn’t that what Brendan and Emery and Derrick have urged me to look at? What they’ve pushed me to admit? Why is it so much easier to say it to Sharon?

“You won’t,” she says without hesitation. “Because you already aren’t. You’re the guy who checks in. The guy who notices. The guy who still cares when so many have shied away, feeling unsure what to say.” She pauses. “That matters.”

I struggle to speak. “Thank you.”

“I saw the team’s going to be in Los Angeles in November. I was thinking about coming out with the kids so they can see you play.”

“I’d love that. Just give me a call when you know for sure and I’ll get you tickets.”

“Will do.”

When we hang up, the hallway feels too quiet, and I don’t move for a long time. I stare at the floor. At the faint reflection of myself in the dark glass of the trophy case nearby. At the version of me that doesn’t know what comes next.

That’s the part I don’t plan for. Not because I don’t care, but because planning feels like admitting it’s coming.

And I don’t know who I am when it does.

Not yet.

I think of my brother. Of Emery. Of Manring. Of how close the line really is between having a life and losing your way.

That’ll never be me.

But if that’s true, then why am I so afraid to imagine it?

Even if seeing you hurts him.

Because I’m a reminder of what he had. What he lost. What his purpose once was.

“Lucas Hale?”

I look up to the squeaky voice that says my name. A kid stands a few feet away. He’s maybe eleven or twelve with a jersey on that’s way too big for his body. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder and eyes wide like he’s afraid I might disappear if he blinks.

“Hey, bud. How are you?” I say and then nod in greeting to the man beside him who looks like his dad.

“Can I—can I get your autograph?”

I smile and walk closer, taking the pen and program he holds out to me with shaking fingers.

“I play quarterback too,” he blurts out. “I have your number. I’m going to be here someday, just like you.”

My chest tightens, and I take my time to sign my name. “I don’t doubt it.” I hand the program back to him. “You’ve just gotta keep showing up.”

His grin widens as he keeps staring at me. I shake his father’s hand and wave bye as they walk away, the kid staying backward so he can keep staring at me.

This life—this sport—has never been about the fame or fortune for me. It’s so much more than that. It’s the team dynamics. It’s the being part of something much bigger than myself and contributing to a common goal.