Page 15 of The Backup Plan

This is my last shot.

I know it. The league knows it. Every columnist with a keyboard knows it.

If I fail here, there’s no comeback story to tell. Just a quiet fade into what could’ve been on the many highlight reels from a life I used to own.

No one will see me break.

Not the team. Not the city. Not the rookies looking at me like I’m the standard instead of the warning.

And definitely not the world that already decided I was finished.

This is my last chance to prove that I’m not done yet.

And that I’ll bleed for it if I have to.

Emery

By the time I make it back to my own hotel room a few blocks away, the adrenaline has burned off and left nothing but shaking exhaustion in its wake.

I lock the door behind me and lean my forehead against it for a few minutes, breathing through the lingering nausea and the echo of fear I haven’t fully let myself feel.

Shower.

I need to get this off me. Last night. The bar. The confusion. The way my body betrayed me. The sickening realization of how close I came to something far worse.

I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.

I can’t get the water in the shower hot enough. It scalds, yet I let it burn away every ounce of last night. I need it gone—the pitching of my stomach, the fogginess in my head, the uneasiness of everything.

If it weren’t for the mystery man . . .

I brace my hands against the tile walls and let the tears fall.

Just this once.

I let them come hard and fast, silent and ugly, until my chest aches and my legs feel weak. I don’t sob. I don’t spiral. I don’t let this turn into something bigger than it needs to be.

Because this is not how my story here in Austin starts. I refuse to let it.

When the tears stop, I draw in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and turn off the shower. My reflection in the mirror is pale and tired, but I’m still standing.

First day.

Dream job.

Fresh start.

Whatever someone tried to take from me last night, they don’t get this too.

The first thing I notice about the Rebels training facility is how cold it is inside.

And considering it’s Texas and already ninety degrees before nine in the morning, it feels deliberate. Controlled. A reminder that once you step inside, your body belongs to them and not the sun.

The air-conditioning’s welcome chill sinks straight into my bones, and my stomach rolls. Not from the nerves of starting a new job, but from the lingering nausea.

The second thing I notice is that everyone is watching me.

Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough glances around to register. A lift of eyebrows. A pause in conversation. A quick glance away when I catch them looking.