Page 153 of The Backup Plan

“Hale? You good?” Hendricks asks, pulling me from my sidetrack.

“Never been better.” I look around at all the eyes looking at me as I hear the play in my helmet. “Guns trip right. 62-Y option. Break.”

We get into position and I take the snap, then drop back. I scan the field and count the routes like I always do as the pocket holds around me.

Branson is in my periphery making his run and I let the ball go—shoulders turning, wrist snapping, everything muscle memory has ever taught me.

He’s there. Open. Then the ball is in his hands.

He’s hit hard from the left side.

The ball knocks free from the impact, skidding across the grass and players on both teams scramble after it.

And the fucking Comets come up with it.

Shit.

The Comets let the clock run out. Game over.

I hang my head, hating the loss, but knowing I took advantage of the time I had.

“Great seeing you out here,” Santos, the Comet’s quarterback, says and shakes my hand.

“Great game,” I say and then jog off the field. My eyes find Emery as I do. Her

arms are crossed and her expression is unreadable.

I lift my shoulder, smirk, and roll it in a circle like it’s nothing.

“Feels good.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something flashes across her face—too fast, too loaded—and then it’s gone.

But I don’t have time to look closer because the team is heading into the tunnel toward the locker rooms. There’s noise and music and guys grumbling about what they could’ve done better, but the second I sit down, it all dulls.

I flex my fingers. I rotate my shoulder. It still feels strong.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the floor.

“Fuck, man,” I say, leaning my head back against the wall behind me.

“You good, Hale?” a receiver asks.

“Yeah.” My smile is quick as I fist bump a few other players that walk by.

I close my eyes and just sit in the hum around me that I’ve thrived in my whole life.

This feeling is why this sport is addicting. Why my life is one, long addiction.

Just when I start to think I could walk away from the game and find a life, I’m punched in the face with just how good it feels to be here. To live this. To need this.

And all this talk about being okay with life after football vanishes.

Call me stubborn.

Call me stupid.

I’m not giving this up without one knock-down, drag-out fight.