Page 144 of The Backup Plan

My fingers tighten around his without meaning to.

You’re so much more than football.

And I know I’m not the only one who thinks that.

“Walker made a good call getting Hale here,” Owen says.

“Fuck, yeah. You noticed how much the team respects him in the locker room? On the field?” Brian adds.

“In PT too,” Owen says.

“I’ve never come across such a talented QB who’s just as equally humble. Solid. Rare.”

“Agreed. I hope he makes the team for that reason alone.”

How many conversations have I heard Lucas’s name mentioned that have been full of praise for his character?

The man is an incredible human.

But I close my parted lips and do what he asked—listen.

“I told you about my parents, about how nothing I did mattered to them. Because of that, right or wrong, I looked elsewhere for affirmation of my worth and my value. And that came with football. I was good at it and people noticed. Parents pulled me aside and patted me on the back. Coaches asked me if I wanted to play for their teams. Teammates invited me to their houses because they wanted to be associated with the kid their parents talked about. At home I was just Lucas—not enough for my parents to stand up and pay attention. On the football field, I was Lucas—the star player who everybody admired. The leader who knew his role and played it damn well. It was the only place life made sense for me when everything else felt like chaos or failure.”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur so he knows I’m still listening, but Jesus Christ. His parents sound ghastly.

Not like I’m super close to mine, but they at least encouraged me to pursue my dreams and goals.

“If that’s taken away from me, Emery, I don’t know what’s left. I don’t know who I am without it. I know you’ll say that’s okay, I can figure it out . . . but I’m not ready to find that out yet.”

The words are even. Well-thought-out. Honest. His truth.

He turns his head toward me. “The decision to play or not is mine. I get to decide whether I’m willing to risk not having a bum arm someday or not.”

“And that’s the dilemma,” I say, my chest aching. “I get paid to tell the truth about the athletes. Whether their injury is detrimental or innocuous. What the risks might be to other players by putting an injured teammate on the field. The team is paying you for your arm. They’re paying me to be honest about the condition it’s in.”

“And right now it’s not in any condition. It’s playing perfectly well—hitting marks, getting the job done. I shouldn’t be held back because of what might happen in the future.”

“There is no might about it.”

“Okay. Fine. What will happen in the future. But why does that get to restrict me now?”

My sigh is as heavy as the topic of conversation. “While you’re making valid points, it’s still my job to report on their athletes’ health and status.”

“Do you know how many guys in the locker room are playing hurt? How many walk around being held together by pre-wrap and tape, numbing their shit with cortisone injections, and pretending it’s fine? You know I’m right.” His voice hardens just a touch. “No doubt if they had a strain and you put them in that MRI, you’d see something in their scans too that would concern you. I don’t understand why you get to be my judge, jury, and executioner when they get to be their own.”

The comment hits harder than expected.

“Lucas . . .”

“This is why guys lie about their injuries. Why they lick their wounds at home or in private facilities.”

I don’t respond right away, because since those scans loaded, since I told Lucas it was in his and the team’s best interest for him to stop playing, I’m not convinced that is true.

I know morally and ethically what I’m supposed to do—inform the team—but what if I delayed informing them of the magnitude of the results?

Or simply didn’t tell them at all?

The thought feels like stepping on thin ice. Terrifying. Irresponsible. Human.