Page 174 of The Backup Plan

“Maybe we should wait until my probation period is over to tell them.”

“If you insist,” he teases. “But it won’t stop me from thinking about doing dirty things to you on that desk with nothing but your heels and your glasses on.”

“You just got a new job and I’m trying to prove I deserve mine, so let’s save that scenario for the office in our new house.”

His eyes light up—he’s as excited to hear those words as I am to say them. “That’s a deal, but in the meantime, the kitchen counter will have to suffice.”

“Deal.” I grin. “I’m proud of you. I’m sorry for what you’ve lost, but I’m so happy for you and what you’ve gained.”

“You. This. A life after football that’s still in football.”

“I love you,” I mouth the words.

“I love you,” he whispers back.

He opens the door and heads out, and I stare after him with a smile on my face. Finally, the future doesn’t feel like something we’re bracing for.

It feels like something we’re choosing.

Together.

Lucas

The first thing I notice is how wrong it feels to be on this side of the clipboard.

No helmet.

No shoulder pads.

No tape wrapped too tight around joints that ache before they’ve even been tested.

My sling is gone now, replaced with cautious movement and a low-grade awareness of shoulder pain. I’m cleared to be here. To walk. To stand. To coach.

Just not to play. There’s a small hole in my soul over that—it’ll always be there—yet being here gives me purpose.

The field stretches out in front of me, green and familiar. It’s almost cruel how it doesn’t look any different from when I was running on it. Guys jog past, cleats crunching against turf, voices carrying through the morning air.

Assistant offensive coordinator.

The title still feels strange in my head.

“You ready?” Peter asks, glancing over at me.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Am I? I don’t know.

Practice starts like it always does. Reps. Timing. Cadence. Cole takes snaps, calling plays cleanly, confident in the pocket. I watch without meaning to dissect everything—coverage disguises, safety depth, the way a linebacker shades just half a step too far inside.

It’s instinct. Muscle memory without the muscle.

On the third rep, Cole hesitates.

My body reacts before my brain catches up.

“Throw it,” I mutter under my breath, hand twitching like I’m about to step in and take the snap myself.

The urge is sharp. Automatic. Familiar.