Page 30 of The Backup Plan

“I read,” I deadpan.

A couple guys laugh, easing the tension. Good. I prefer this atmosphere with my teammates—relaxed, focused, real.

We break the huddle. I clap my hands once, take the snap, and the world narrows to movement and timing and the one thing I’ve always understood better than anyone else.

Football.

I scramble back and my mind does several things all at once—it scans the field for my receiver while correcting the bad grip I got off the snap, and it surveys how well my line is holding in front of me. It’s a mind-boggling assessment made in a matter of seconds, but when everything lines up like it does right now, it’s a goddamn beautiful thing.

The ball leaves my hand on instinct, a clean spiral with perfect angle and height that whistles into the receiver’s hands like it never left mine.

For half a second, my body forgets its broken. I’m not thirty-four with a reconstructed shoulder and a whole league thinking my time is past. I’m just a quarterback reveling in the fact that I still have pinpoint precision and perfect timing.

Then the burn hits. Deep. Hard. Like a live wire wrapped around the joint.

My fingers tighten but I keep my face absolutely blank.

No one sees. No one gets to.

This is just how it is now.

Coach yells something across the field to the other squad. I glance just in time to see the missile that Cole throws down the field being caught. The players, first string, on the field with him all cheer and clap at the reception.

I take the next snap. Throw the ball. Pain radiates. I swallow it. Again.

The reps stack one after another. Sweat runs down my forehead and stings my eyes. The sun climbs higher and while my shoulder starts to feel like someone replaced it with broken glass, I welcome it.

Pain means I’m still here.

If the Rebels want to stick me in the corner as the steady, old hand, then fine. I’ll be steady. I’ll stay on the periphery of the spotlight.

And then when the moment comes, when they need something only I can do, I’ll take my place under that bright light.

It only takes one play to get a whole stadium and fanbase on your side.

The practice continues on. Our second-string squad rotates stations to run footwork drills, read progression, and learn timing routes.

Cole keeps glancing over like he expects me to fall apart. Like he wants to catch and revel in the exact second I crack.

Instead, I give him clean reps with tight spirals and sharp reads on my available receivers. I show him my calm command of the huddle that makes even the rookies stand a little straighter.

None of my actions are loud or flashy per se, because they don’t have to be.

That’s the thing about experience. It doesn’t announce itself . . . it just is.

And by the time we hit 7-on-7 drills, I’m hurting. I hide it. Or at least I think I do until Mason jogs up beside me during a water break.

“This is a lot for your first day here,” he says quietly. “You good?”

“Never better.”

He gives me a look that says he knows it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t press.

I respect that.

Coach blows his whistle again. “Hale. Jump in next series with first squad.”

Cole’s head snaps up. He jogs over, eyes flashing concern. “I’m good to go more, Coach. My unit’s used to me throwing to them.”