Page 34 of The Backup Plan

“Do you think he will?”

“No. But I think he wants to.”

She pauses, her voice soft when she speaks. “That’s new.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it, and think about my ex. About the slow erosion of trust. About promises that stopped meaning anything. About waking up one morning and realizing that staying would cost me more than leaving ever could.

“Mm. Austin, the Rebels, are my reset. It’s exactly what I needed.” I don’t think I ever realized how much I did until just this moment.

“Fresh start,” she murmurs.

“Fresh start,” I repeat. “Though I wouldn’t mind it being about twenty degrees cooler.”

“No shit.” Trish laughs. “You’ve got this, Em. You really do. You always do.”

“I know,” I say. And I do. “I guess I thought they’d ease me into things rather than throw one of their most difficult cases at me on day one.”

“Yeah, well, pressure makes diamonds. Shine, baby, shine.”

“Or it results in implosions.” I snort.

I can picture her rolling her eyes. “I’m ignoring you said that. Call me later. I want to know more about your first day.”

“I will.” I glance at the clock. Perfect timing to head to my meeting.

“Go be brilliant, Dr. Porter.”

I end the call and draw in a deep breath. “That’s the plan,” I murmur to the silence of my office. And carry that with me as I put my professional face on and head down the hallway to the meeting room.

When I enter, it feels way too quiet for what we’re about to discuss—athletes playing a violent game with high-dollar stakes.

The room is painted in muted tones with a long conference table and leather chairs. A wall of glass overlooks the practice field—much like mine does but from a much better vantage point. And on that field, men are still vying, and in some cases bleeding, for a dream that’s far more fragile than I think any of them realize.

I take a seat near the end of the table, set my tablet down, and clasp my hands in my lap. Observant. Professional. Invisible, if I choose to be.

Coach Brooks stands at the head of the table. Grant Walker, the general manager, leans against the far wall, arms crossed, and phone clutched in his hand like he’s ready to make a player deal at any moment. Coordinators fill in the rest of the space—offensive, defensive, special teams, operations, finance.

Or at least that’s my assumption since I’m still trying to place everyone.

Oh, and then there’s medical.

And me.

I didn’t miss the way a few heads turned when I entered and took a seat, or the slight pause in their conversations like they forgot there was a new person in their midst.

I note it and let it go. I’m entering what I’ve been told is a tight-knit community and know I’ll have to prove myself before I’m included in that group.

It’s no wonder they gave me Lucas Hale to prove my worth.

“This isn’t a motivational speech,” Grant says, pushing off the wall and moving beside Coach Brooks. “This is reality.”

Grant clicks a remote. The lights go down and the screen behind him illuminates.

LONE STAR REBELS—YEAR TWO

Beneath it, numbers scroll. Budgets. Attendance projections. Media exposure. Sponsorship retention.

All projections that are probably more precarious than not.