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King looks toward me. “That feels worse.”

“Appreciate the support, guys.”

“I am supporting you.” He gestures toward the wall behind us as though the people on the other side can see him. “I just think they should know some of us have never personally offended them.”

Tuck tears the tape with his teeth. “Give it time.”

King nods as though he’s received legitimate career advice, but they move on without waiting to see whether I’m okay with the joke. The guys know what Houston is to me without treating that knowledge like an invitation to pry before kickoff. I’m still appreciating the fact that they know when to leave something alone when my phone vibrates against the shelf inside my locker.

Pea

I assume you’re busy doing important quarterback things.

The tension I’ve been carrying all morning eases as I read her message, cutting through everything that keeps reminding me where I am.

Extremely important.

She starts typing almost immediately.

Should I leave you alone so you can quarterback harder?

Probably.

I wait for another message until it becomes clear she’s listening to me, which is irritating enough to push everything else out of my head for a second.

That was a test.

You failed.

I laugh, still looking at her answer when Tuck glances over as he stands, his attention dropping to the phone in my hand before coming back to my face. He and Easton haven’t said a word about finding Calliope and me dancing in the locker room, which is more restraint than I expected after the evidence we handed them.

Tuck shakes his head before reaching for his helmet. “Whatever put that smile on your face, keep it. You looked like you were about to fight the building five minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t going to fight the building.”

“Good. Concrete is undefeated against pissed-off quarterbacks.”

He walks away before I can tell him exactly what I think of his scouting report, and my phone vibrates again.

Seriously, though. Good luck today, Old Man.

Calliope knows today is different without knowing all the reasons this city can still get under my skin. A few weeks ago, I would’ve wondered whether she’d turn on the game. Now I read the message and know she will without needing to ask. Her watching me play has stopped feeling like something I have to talk her into.

Thanks, Pea.

Coach Quinn stands near the center of the locker room with his play sheet in one hand, and the room settles as phones disappear. I put mine away and reach for my helmet.

“We know what they’re going to try to make this game about, but we don’t have to help them do it.”

His attention moves around the room instead of landing on me. I appreciate that after spending the week answering questions about whether Houston made a mistake, as if eleven years of my life can be reduced to a storyline beneath a highlight clip.

“They know our quarterback. Good for them. We know their personnel, and none of that changes what we’re here to do. Play Valor football and make them adjust to us.”

King leans toward Sullivan. “Pretty sure he means to throw me the ball.”

Coach doesn’t bother looking at him. “I mean exactly the opposite of whatever King thinks I mean.”

The guys’ laughter follows us toward the tunnel, and I fall in with the offense, carrying nothing more complicated than what Coach gave us. Houston knows me, but after eleven years here, I know them just as well. Coming out onto the field from this side feels wrong after seeing it thousands of times from the other direction. The crowd that once rose when I came through the tunnel answers me with boos. I’ve been booed here before, when they still expected me to fix whatever I’d done the next time I touched the ball. They don’t need me to fix anything for them anymore.