Page 55 of Hard Pass

The roar hits before I even step on the field. It’s part adrenaline, part eagerness . . . and if I’m honest, it’s part hesitation.

This is the first time I’ll walk out of the tunnel since the accusations hit social media and C2 became a viral meme. Cheating Cole.

Normally I jog out of the tunnel with my helmet tucked under my arm. Today, I have it on—not because I can’t handle the crowd’s shit—and oh, they’ll give me shit—but because I need every ounce of focus locked on the green turf and the hash marks ahead.

“Let’s go, Valor,” someone says, clapping me hard on the shoulder. I follow him out and onto the field.

The Austin crowd roars, but all I hear is the edge underneath it, almost as if the crowd showed up for more than football.

Push it out of your head, Valor.

Don’t give it attention. Don’t breathe life into it.

And yet the signs are right there in front of me in a way I can’t ignore.

BET AGAINST VALOR

OVER/UNDER ON HIS CAREER

CHECK THE ODDS BEFORE HE THROWS

My jaw tightens and my hands curl into fists.

“Don’t read it,” Camden Wolfe mutters beside me as we hit the sideline. “Not worth it. We got you.”

“I’m not,” I lie, snapping my chinstrap tight so my world narrows to what’s in front of me. Field. Ball. Reads. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.

And on that first snap of the game, I feel good. I take the ball, drop back as the pocket holds, and scan the field. Left is covered. Middle is open. Release. The ball cuts through the air in a tight spiral with good pace hitting my receiver square in the chest.

First down.

The hit of familiarity, of being me, settles that unease that’s been rioting in my chest.

Thank fucking God.

Second play, I roll right, plant, fire.

Another completion. Not perfect. Not anything flashy. But it does the job.

The rhythm I’ve been chasing all week finally shows up.

The next drive starts on our own twenty-eight and suddenly everything feels cleaner.

“Blue eighty. Set hut.”

The ball hits my hand and I barely think before firing a quick slant to Jenson for eight.

Second and short.

The offensive line resets fast, confidence building with every snap. Hardin motions across the formation and the defense shifts with him.

I see the mismatch instantly and change the play at the line. Brooks catches it from the sideline, already nodding before the snap comes.

The ball’s snapped. I fake the handoff, hold the linebacker just long enough, then launch one deep down the right sideline. The spiral leaves my hand clean, tight, and easy. Deegan hauls it in over the defender for thirty-two yards before getting shoved out near the red zone.

The stadium erupts. And for the first time in a few games, it doesn’t sound hostile. It sounds like football.

“Let’s fucking go,” Walker shouts, slapping my helmet as we hurry to the line.