Page 29 of The Backup Plan

I lift my chin to him as an invite.

Don’t take the bait, Valor. Be bigger than that.

After a few tense seconds, he makes the wise choice and just laughs. Its sound is hollow, but at least it’s a laugh. At least he reined it in.

“Good luck with that,” he mutters, turning away like he won.

He didn’t. Not even close.

And if that’s how this is going to be, it’s going to be a long fucking season.

Funny thing is that men like him are always noise first, substance second. I know that for a fact because I used to be him.

I just had more talent than fear back then.

Now? I have both.

Coach blows his whistle. “Quarterbacks. Finish your warm-ups and then we run install,” he says referring to the process of teaching players the team’s playbook—formations, schemes, individual plays—new and existing. “Valor, you’re up. Hale—” He pauses like saying my name means he’ll have to decide where to put me. “Hale, take reps with second unit for now. That’ll help you learn the offense. Be ready to jump in here.”

Be ready.

Mentor. Second unit. No spotlight.

I know where my place is, Coach. I don’t say the words. Instead, I just nod and say, “Got it.”

Cole looks at me over his shoulder like that’s proof that he’s already won.

Arrogant prick.

I’ve been around long enough to know that winning early means nothing if you don’t win when it counts.

Second string is far from glamorous, and, truth be told, it’s the first time in a long-ass time that I’m on it.

I step into the huddle with a handful of younger guys. For a second, I think back to when I was this young and hungry, looking at every snap as a proving ground and a moment where I could make a name for myself.

My feet were quick, my arm was strong, and even with an instinct for the game, I thought I was untouchable. High school and college proved that to me.

But those two had nothing on the National Football League. How hard the hits were. How savvy the other players were. How we were on a way more equal talent level than the disparity I faced in college.

My first year was a brutal lesson in the fact that talent alone wasn’t enough.

Saying I became obsessed with the game is an understatement. I studied film endlessly and refined mechanics with coaches long after the rest of my teammates hit the locker room. I taught myself to read the defense within seconds and mapped out all scenarios in my head so I could anticipate possibilities. I learned when to take risks and when not to.

I made so many mistakes that first year, but fuck if I didn’t learn from every single one.

I willed myself to become the offensive anchor. To be the guy my team looked toward and counted on when the seconds were ticking down with the game on the line. And in time, my stats became noticeable—pass completion percentage, touchdown to interception ratio, passing yards per game.

I became the player I knew I could be with game-winning drives and championship runs. I was the franchise player analysts lauded their praise on and teams wanted on their roster. The talented quarterback whose worth was recognized not only for his rings and winning record, but also because of his resilience, adaptability, leadership, and the ability to perform under pressure.

Season after season.

And that’s why the Rebels wanted me. Want me. And what I hope to deliver.

“Let us have it, Hale,” Mason Ellerby, the center, says, looking around the circle of guys. “What’re we running?”

I glance at my wristband complete with the play list I’ve committed to memory, but still need refreshers on, and roll my shoulder out of habit. “Trips right. Slant-flat concept. Quick release.”

Mason lifts his eyebrows as someone else whistles. “You know it already.” It’s not a question, but more of a statement.