Page 27 of The Backup Plan

“Bullshit.” He chuckles. “Bull-fucking-shit.” He goes to walk away and then stops and looks back at me. “And while we’re having this heart-to-heart, why do you get the hot doc?”

I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Jealous?” I ask. “Careful. That’s not a great look for a franchise quarterback.”

His ears go red.

I lean in just enough that he can barely hear me. “For the record, rookie? She’s a doctor and deserves respect.” And yes, she is definitely hot.

He scoffs again, but this time it feels more . . . forced. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way.”

I step back to give him space . . . to give him the illusion of control.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. If I’m in your way, it’s because you put me there,” I say and turn toward my locker without waiting for a response.

“Washed-up legend,” he mutters at my back.

I smile. Yeah. That’s fine.

Legends know how to wait.

I weave my way to my locker and sit down with my elbows on my knees.

The Rebels approached me to come here, but we’re on day one and it already feels like my future is all over the place.

The coaches don’t trust me.

The rookie doesn’t want me.

And the one person who might actually be able to help me sees straight through my bullshit.

Fucking awesome.

I change into practice clothes, lace up my cleats, and roll my shoulder again, already used to the burn.

If I’m supposed to lead by example, I’ll do that right now by running reps by myself.

I’ll find my footing.

One way or another, I’ll find it.

And when I do?

They’re all going to feel it.

Lucas

Freshly cut grass.

The scent brings me back to my Pop Warner football days. The first experience of a game I fell in love with. The cheerleaders cheering. The burn of new cleats on growing feet as they slowly stretch out. The pain that comes from taking your first real hit. The overly enthusiastic parents on the sidelines, shouting after every throw or tackle.

But this fresh-cut grass scent comes with air that already feels thick enough you can chew on. The heat emanates off the ground in waves making the whole field feel like a sauna. Somewhere in the distance, the grounds crew finishes mowing and the whine of the machine fades until all that’s left is the dull thud of footballs, the sharp bark of coaches, and the constant, sometimes desperate undercurrent of men trying to prove they deserve to be here.

I walk out of the shade of the tunnel with my helmet in my hand and my shoulder anticipating the pain it’s about to endure.

That’s our prearranged agreement.

I ignore it.

It behaves.