Page 82 of The Backup Plan

The traffic opens up, and I see the end zone before I see my player.

I plant. Twist. Fire.

I get hit before I can see what happens next, but the crowd tells me with its wild roar all around me. Touchdown.

Fucking A straight.

The moments that follow are electric—players whooping, hand slapping pads and helmets, a few guys shouting my name. I jog off the field, breathing hard and sweat dripping down my face.

My shoulder still feels strong. Better than strong. Thank God.

“Nice throw,” one of the receivers says, patting my helmet as I run past.

“Great job,” Coach says as Cole looks on from over Coach’s shoulder where he sits on the bench. He gives me a nod. It’s not much, and I know it just killed him to give me even that, so I appreciate it.

I set my helmet down and lift up a water bottle for a drink. It’s then I see her on the sidelines. She’s standing with the medical staff. Her posture is straight and her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are locked on me. Not clinical. Not detached. More aware than anything.

A smile flickers on her lips—it’s brief but there. I return it and then turn back toward the field and the game, my grin widening.

This. This is who I am. What I do. What I’ve been chasing since the game first taught me who and what I am. Untouchable. Fearless. Goddamn good.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m proving anything.

I feel like I’m claiming it.

“Good series,” someone says as he walks past me. He’s out of earshot before I realize it’s Cole.

Well, there’s that at least.

I set the water bottle down, my pulse still thudding in my ears. The field stretches out in front of me, familiar and unforgiving and exactly where I belong.

God, that felt good.

The defense continues to hold our opponents as I’m just starting to settle, the adrenaline starting to ebb, when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise. “Hale?”

I look up. “What do you need, Coach?”

I don’t know what I expect his answer to be, but it’s not him jerking his chin toward the field and saying, “Helmet back on. You’re gonna finish the quarter.”

For a half second, I just stare at him.

Then it hits. My grin. The resurgence of adrenaline. The electricity that lights up every nerve in my body.

“Yes, sir,” I say already reaching for my helmet.

Cole’s head snaps up and surprise flashes across his face—it’s quick—and a few guys clap my shoulder as I jog back on the field.

This isn’t a show of charity from Coach.

This isn’t a generosity sequence for my own nostalgia.

This is trust. With his team. To hold on to the lead we have.

The huddle forms again, so I call out the play that’s relayed via speaker into my helmet. I take the snap.

And then another.

And another.