Page 152 of The Backup Plan

“We used it when I was a rookie. Worked like a charm. It’s just a mix of these two,” I say pointing to two plays in his chart of plays. “Unconventional and unexpected.”

“They’ll blitz next. That’s their go-to when they line up like that.”

“No. They’re going to sell the blitz,” I say. “See how Grangier is lined up? They look like a blitz but are going to drop into the zone on third. Slot will open up if Cole has patience instead of forcing it.”

Peter relays my observation to Cole’s helmet. He glances over to the sidelines, meets my eyes, and nods.

They huddle. They break with a clap of their hands. The ball is snapped.

The pocket collapses fast, too fast, and the field does just what I said they were going to, but one of our linemen loses his footing and goes down—

Opening a direct line to nail Cole.

Cole tries to roll out of the pocket and away from the safety but doesn’t quite get there. The hit is clean but heavy, the kind that rattles more than hurts.

Cole goes down.

And stays down.

My stomach drops. No. Fuck.

He pushes himself up but immediately favors his ankle, hopping on it.

I’m moving on to the field and toward him before the whistle finishes blowing.

“Here,” I say, wrapping my arm around him and helping him hop off the field. “Take it slow. Just breathe through it.”

“I’m fine.” He hops a few times and tries to put weight on it. “Motherfucker. I planted wrong. Rolled my ankle.”

“I know,” I say as the trainers meet us and take my place.

“I’m going back in,” he growls to the trainers. “I’m fine.”

“Listen to me,” I say. “We need you strong. One hundred percent. Don’t be stubborn.” The trainers sit him down on the bench and start assessing. “It’s the first game, it’s almost over, and you don’t want to fuck up the rest of your season by injuring it more.”

Coach jogs over. “Cole, you’re done.”

Cole opens his mouth to argue, but I shake my head once and try to be the voice of reason. The motion is small and controlled, so is my voice when I speak. “Let them look at you. The team needs you for sixteen-plus more games more than it does for the next two minutes.”

Something eases in his expression. Trust, maybe? Or relief.

“Fine,” he finally says.

“Hale. Get your ass in there,” Coach says but I’m already snapping my helmet on and running onto the field.

My two minutes.

I’ll own every single second of them.

I take my snaps, take my time in the pocket, plant firmly, and make my throws—tight spirals, with great pace, on target. Almost effortless.

My shoulder doesn’t scream during the sequence. It doesn’t pinch. It doesn’t light up with that searing sensation I’ve had before and that Emery says will continue to get worse and worse. It feels good and it just . . . works. Like it has when it always matters.

I jog back to the huddle, pulse steady, breath even, and confidence settling into my bones.

There’s no way something that’s supposedly breaking down feels this good. No way my arm does and performs exactly what I ask of it if it’s deteriorating the way Emery says it is.

I’m not doubting that she sees it, but maybe she’s off on the timeline because fuck does it feel good right now.