Page 126 of The Backup Plan

“Dear God,” he groans. “Tell me what you want me to do to you . . .”

Lucas

The snap comes clean.

I take three steps back, scan left, then right, and fire the ball on instinct. It leaves my hand sharp and fast, spiraling exactly where I want it.

The hit comes before I can see it. It’s low, late, and rattles my teeth seconds before I make impact with the ground right on my shoulder. Fuck, that hurt. Hot and searing, like a nerve catching wrong. I roll through it, pop back up and jog toward the huddle like nothing happened.

“Late hit, Desmon,” I tell the linebacker who clipped me.

He smirks. “Nah. You’re just getting soft, old man.”

I grin like it doesn’t bother me. It does.

The next play breaks down fast. The protection around me collapses and rather than throw the ball, I hand it off to a running back to gain four yards.

I don’t look to the sideline. I refuse to acknowledge that I changed the play on my own from passing to running to give my shoulder another few seconds to recover.

The ache creeps down my arm, settling somewhere between my shoulder and elbow. I shake it out between snaps and flex my fingers.

A nerve. It has to be a nerve.

Not tissue. Not tendons. It can’t be that.

Another play. Another rushing pattern that comes up short, forcing the special teams to change out with us so they can punt.

You’re fine. It’s just from the hit.

I jog off the field, adrenaline still buzzing, but I know that if it hurts like this now, when that adrenaline wears off, I’m well and truly fucked.

I slap a few teammates hands with my left hand and take a seat on the bench, keeping my eyes down. I don’t look toward the medical staff. I don’t look anywhere near Emery. I know exactly where she is, but the last thing I want is her to see anything on my face that gives me away.

The game stays tight.

Too tight.

Coach threw the third-string quarterback in to give him some reps before the roster is finalized. While I understand it, I’d rather it be me who goes in.

“Christ,” Peter, the offensive coordinator, shouts as our offense gets clobbered yet again.

Next play, I watch the defense cheat toward the boundary, watch the safeties creep down a step too far. The next series confirms it—they’re overplaying the slant and daring us to go inside.

We don’t.

We keep forcing it, losing the yardage we’ve gained.

On the third down, I stand and walk toward our offensive coordinator. My heart races for some odd reason as if my opinion, my observation, might not be welcome.

“They’re shading outside,” I say. “I’ve played for their coordinator before and know how he thinks. The linebackers are biting hard on the fake. Run a delayed cross off the play action. The slot’s wide open if the safety falls for it and bites.”

Peter studies the field for a beat as if he’s watching it all play out in his head. He nods. “Let’s try it.”

The call goes in.

The snap.

The fake.