Page 50 of Hard Pass

After practice, after Hawley digging around in my head, after another day of cameras shoved in my face asking if I’ve “lost the locker room,” the last thing I want is forced socialization.

But the team group chat called me out.

RODNEY COOK: Team BBQ. My house. 6 p.m. Don’t be that guy who doesn’t show.

MASON ELLERBY: Yo. Mandatory attendance. Rodney spent way too much on meat.

RIDGE HANSON: 2nd Annual Rebels BBQ. LET’S GOOOOOO!

LUCAS HALE: Don’t bail on this one, Valor. We’re all watching you.

RODNEY COOK: Show up or don’t ask me for shit on the field on Sunday.

So now I’m here.

Rodney Cook’s house is massive. The kind of place that screams O-line money—huge backyard, outdoor kitchen, oversized furniture built for men north of three hundred pounds, and an enormous pool that would qualify as a public recreation center.

Music plays through outdoor speakers while teammates spread across the patio. Some are in the pool. Others are crowded around cornhole boards with beers in hand.

And for the first time all week, it feels like nobody’s looking at me like a headline.

“Valor!” Rodney bellows from behind the grill, reaching out a fist for me to bump. “You’re late.”

“Dude. Ten minutes doesn’t qualify as late.”

“Then I guess I’ll wait ten minutes to snap the ball next game and see if you consider that being late or not as you get laid out by their D-line.”

“Funny.” I point to the grill. “Pretty sure that fire means you’re burning the burgers.”

“Nah, man.” His big belly laugh fills the space. “That’s called flavor, QB.”

Those of us on the patio all laugh and the tightness in my chest loosens a fraction.

There it is. The first feeling of normalcy I’ve had in days. Just my team. Just their smart-ass jokes. Just . . . this.

Robbins tosses me a beer the second I step toward the pool. “Figured you’d be ghosting us for a hot date.”

“It was one time.” I roll my eyes. “And she was worth it.”

Everyone laughs.

“Well, we’re glad you didn’t ghost us,” he says. “This is needed.”

Simple. Nonjudgmental.

I crack open the beer and glance around the backyard. “All this from one contract extension?”

Rodney points his spatula at me. “Don’t hate because the center’s the backbone of this organization.”

“Pretty sure you meant quarterback,” I joke.

“Without me snapping the ball, pretty boy, you’re just an overpaid guy standing around in spandex.”

I bark out a laugh. “That’s fair.”

“Damn straight it is.”

A rookie receiver on the third string team—Tyler, I think his name is—appears awkwardly beside me.