Page 127 of The Backup Plan

The safety buys it. Our quarterback throws a perfect spiral right into a pair of hands in the end zone.

Touchdown.

The stadium falls silent, their team down by six and only a minute left on the clock. For a moment, everything else disappears for me—the ache, the worry, the noise in my head—and I allow myself to own the success of seeing that play ahead of time. I clap once, satisfied and pumped.

We win by six, thank fuck. We deserved that victory.

After the whistle, I head to the locker room, sit on the bench before my locker with my elbows on my knees and my helmet resting between my hands. It felt good out there. Not just my shoulder—which is a victory in and of itself—but the team gelled. The offense was strong and read the plays right. The defense was dynamic and stopped them in their tracks.

Hopefully, the coaches see what I saw: a team finally coming together; a group of players striving for each other as much as themselves—even knowing over thirty of them will be cut shortly.

Oof. That thought hits hard. I may feel good about my performance, but was it what the coaches wanted? And if so, what hits with even more poignancy is, is this my last preseason? Will I get the chance to go through this tumultuous and kick-ass cycle again?

I blow out a breath and hate the feeling that nags just under my breastbone every time I take the field now.

Because, what will my life be like after football?

What do I want? Travel? Yes. But walking completely away from this game? I don’t think that’s possible. And the new one that keeps circling is, do I want to be alone when I face the rest of my life? Also, no. But for the first time, I have someone who makes that question all the more important. Someone I could see myself with and who would definitely ease that transition.

Why are you thinking about this now, Hale? You’ve got time.

Closing my eyes for a beat, I let the thoughts fade and the noise wash over me—our players congratulating one another. The slaps on backs. The thud of pads being dropped. The music. The laughter. The sound of cleats on the rubber floor.

Coach sits down beside me.

“Hell of a call on that play,” he says. “First time all game we were able to beat their defense when it formed like that.”

“Thanks.”

“You ever think of being a coach someday?”

I huff out a laugh. “Let’s hope that day’s a long way off.”

He chuckles. “We all say that, but you should consider it. You’re good with seeing the whole picture, making quick decisions, and knowing if your team is or isn’t capable of pulling off a play. That’s not an easy thing to do but from what I’ve seen, it comes naturally to you. Not all players can be coaches, but I have a feeling you would be great at it.”

He stands, then pauses, hand resting briefly on my bad shoulder. I don’t flinch when he squeezes gently. Not visibly anyway.

“I heard what you did for Cole. If it weren’t for you getting him out of there, I’m pretty sure the media blowback would have been much worse. I appreciate the way you’ve handled him and tried to take him under your wing. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

I nod. “That’s what was needed in the moment.”

“Agreed. But not everyone would have stepped in.” He looks around the room and smiles before meeting my eyes again, choosing his words carefully when he speaks. “We’re still finalizing the roster.”

My stomach tightens. “Meaning?”

“It means experience matters. Leadership matters. You’ve shown us how you bring both to the table.”

A cautious relief hits me so hard I can barely breathe.

He gives my shoulder a pat. “Good work out there.”

And when he walks away, I sit there a moment longer, breathing it all in.

The game.

The team.

The role I’m growing into.