Page 81 of The Backup Plan

“Because that’s where you always go when you need to think.”

“Fuck off,” I sigh.

“Love you, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah. Me too.”

I hang up and sit there a while longer, watching the kids play like nothing hurts yet. Like rules don’t exist. Like the orange slices and Gatorades waiting for them on the bench are the best fucking goal in the world.

So damn good.

Eventually, I stand and head back toward my truck.

Emery Porter. The woman is on my mind more and more every day. Can’t imagine why. She’s not bothered by my fame. Doesn’t seem to care much about money. Is loyal. Is kind. Is smart. Is willing to be honest even when it’s hard.

And the gorgeous part is an added bonus.

She reminds me of Brendan’s Jenny. And if Jenny can put up with that animal, then I imagine Emery could put up with me.

Going after Emery could be a huge risk.

But I didn’t get where I am by not taking risks.

Doubt she did either.

The question is, how am I going to convince her I’m worth the risk?

Lucas

The noise is comfort.

Cleats moving on turf. Pads collide against one another. The shrill of a whistle cuts through it all.

Preseason games don’t feel like real game days, but they do feel different. More charged with possibility. With potential. It’s where talk dies and ability—the truth whether you can back up that talk—shows up.

I roll my shoulder once as I jog toward the huddle. It feels solid. Not stiff. Not aching. Just that dull warning pulse I’ve learned to live with, and that’s most likely been dampened by the healthy dose of adrenaline Coach calling my name caused.

“All right,” Coach says, play chart tucked under his arm. “Hale, you’ve got the ball the next offensive drive.”

“Got it, Coach,” I say as the offensive coordinator, Peter, motions for me to come over so he can give a quick run-through of how he wants to move the ball down the field and into the end zone.

In under a minute, I’m on the field at their thirty-yard line with the huddle closing around me. For the first time since my shoulder blew, my head isn’t loud with doubt. It’s quiet. Focused. The kind of calm that only comes when the game takes over and you believe in yourself.

It feels fucking awesome. Like coming home.

“Trips right,” I call. “On one.”

We break the huddle. The snap is clean and when the pocket holds for a half a second longer than expected, I step forward, scan the available receivers, and adjust my game plan.

Muscle memory takes the wheel.

The ball leaves my hand with a familiar burn. It’s a tight spiral with a flawless arc. It lands perfectly into the receiver’s hands just beyond the linebacker’s reach.

Cheers erupt.

I don’t smile. I’m already moving on to the next play. The next objective.

Pressure collapses fast this time. A defender breaks through the right side. Instinct kicks in. I pivot, tuck the ball under my arm, and scramble left with my eyes scanning the field.