Page 14 of The Backup Plan

Some of them blatantly stare. Some of them look quickly away like they’ve been caught studying something they’re not sure they trust anymore. A few look at me with hope.

Those are the ones who wreck me.

And then, I lock eyes with a kid across the room.

A QB’s build. Loose posture. Too relaxed if he’s the leader of a team that has a shit ton left to prove.

There’s a cockiness there I recognize instantly. The slight lift of his chin. The confidence that hasn’t been tested yet other than college ball.

Cole Valor.

The rookie.

He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t flinch. And he clearly isn’t intimidated by me.

Instead, he just studies me like he’s already decided how this story ends.

Why the hell did I agree to do this again? To take a back seat to some hotshot who clearly thinks his youth and ability outweigh my experience?

Oh yeah, because his shoulder works and mine doesn’t.

Why? The answer settles in my chest—steady and undeniable.

For the love of the game.

For one more chance to play it.

I give him a respectful nod and before I can catch up to Tyler, Coach Brooks’s voice cuts through the room. “All right.”

The noise dies instantly.

Coach steps toward me, hand extended and voice gruff but solid. A man who doesn’t waste words and who couldn’t care less about the story people tell about you.

“Welcome to the Rebels, Hale.”

His grip is firm. Respectful. I return it.

“Glad to be here.” And for the first time since I stepped off the plane, I actually mean it. This man is part of the reason I agreed to the contract. That, and it’s not like anyone was knocking down my door. But Coach is fair. He’s reasonable. And he’ll let me get in enough reps to show what I’ve got and earn a spot on the team.

That’s more than a lot of teams would give me, even with my long history. A second shoulder reconstruction will do that to you.

Coach gestures toward the row of lockers. “Your stall’s over there. Physical eval is in an hour.”

An hour. My shoulder throbs hard like it heard him. Like it knows it’s going to have to slip that mask on and pretend there is no pain.

I nod. “I’ll be ready.”

Coach’s eyes flick to my right arm—just a fraction too long. He knows I’m not one hundred percent. Of course, he does. Everyone does.

He doesn’t say anything though.

I respect that more than he knows.

The quiet murmurs around the room masked by the music tell me he’s in the minority.

My fingers run over the Rebels logo stitched into the new gear waiting for me in my locker. New colors. New war. Same fucking fight.

And that war includes old battle wounds.