Page 28 of The Backup Plan

For now.

I take a look around to get the lay of the land and stifle a yawn—a reminder of last night that doesn’t have any place on this field. I shake my head to clear it. Typically, each team—first string, second string, practice squad and the like—trains differently and by how the squads are separated out on the field before me, the Rebels organization is no different.

It’s an hour ahead of my squad’s scheduled practice start time, and so far, it looks like there’s a group of rookies here. A few of the vets too.

I know some of them from playing with them on previous teams.

Some of them nod when I pass. A few don’t. Most pretend not to look and then do anyway.

I’m old news and a fresh reminder of what happens when you get injured. You go from QB1 to QB2 without a second thought. The last thing they want to do is align with the guy they think is on the way out when they might be able to hang their star on the flashy rookie predicted to break records.

Coach Brooks is in the middle of the field, clipboard tucked under one arm, a whistle hanging around his neck, and an entourage of other coaches, gofers, and statisticians all around him. He spots me and gives me a short nod that says the niceties from earlier are gone. Now, he’s all business.

That nod says, “Show me what you can do, Hale.”

Fine.

I can do that.

I head toward the quarterback station, and of course, Cole is already there.

He’s in full gear like it’s game day, chin lifted, and tossing the ball with that casual, arrogant flick that makes coaches drool. He laughs at something one of the receivers says, and the sound carries over to me. It’s too loud, too sure of himself, like he’s already putting on a show.

No wonder the laugh doesn’t stop when his eyes land on me.

But it does change. It becomes directed more at me. Is everything with this kid a performance?

“Look who decided to join us,” Cole calls, spinning the ball on his finger before palming it.

I don’t break stride. “Practice already started?”

He grins. “An hour ago. For some of us, at least.”

That some of us is his subtle dig at him being first string—the A team. The starters.

But there’s that immaturity again. There’s him trying to carve out his territory with words because he doesn’t know what else to do with me yet.

I stop a few feet away, close enough that he can’t pretend I’m not there, but not so close it looks like I’m rising to the bait.

“Relax,” I say. “You keep stressing when I’m around, your hair gel is going to sweat off and burn your eyes.” A couple guys snicker. “I mean, I appreciate you trying to look good for me and all, but seeing where you’re throwing is more important.”

Cole’s smile tightens. Two can play this game, Rookie.

He steps toward me, still holding the ball like a crown he can’t wait to strut around in. “Coach said I’m taking first reps.”

Spoken just like a middle schooler wanting everyone to know he’s the best.

“Coach also said you’re QB1.” I shrug. “As you were before I got here. First reps come with that job.”

He leans in a fraction, eyes bright with challenge. “And you’re what? QB2? QB3? An inspirational quote poster come to life?”

I stare at him, my smile a slow, easy crawl over my lips. Unimpressed. Not antagonized.

“Careful,” I say quietly. “Keep running that mouth of yours, and your center’s going to start snapping the ball late on purpose.”

His jaw ticks as the other rookies nearby narrow their eyes in question.

I can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether to laugh the comment off or to take a swing at me.