Page 7 of Hard Pass

I stand there and watch him celebrate as my brain tries to catch up with what just happened. How was that throw short? Did I telegraph it?

Two interceptions last game. Now this. That’s more than my entire final year in college.

This is unacceptable. Total bullshit. Not how I play.

I rip my helmet off as I hit the sideline and roll my neck as irritation simmers just under the surface.

“What the hell was that?” Graham mutters as he passes.

I don’t answer because I don’t have one to give.

“Bad series,” Coach Brooks says when I reach him, arms crossed and eyes locked on mine. “Reset.”

“I’m good,” I say immediately. Almost too quickly. His gaze lingers like he’s waiting for something else.

There isn’t anything though.

I have no excuses. I have no explanations.

After a second, he nods and turns away.

I drop onto the bench and lean forward with my elbows on my knees, eyes tracking the field like I’m already focused on the next drive.

Because that one’s over.

Done.

Except my heart won’t slow down. It’s pounding—too fast, too hard.

I flex my hand, the movement subtle so that no one notices. Once. Twice. But there it is. A tremor. Barely noticeable but . . . I curl my fingers into a fist, tightening until it subsides. What the hell is this?

You’ve made harder throws than that a thousand times over. Probability says a few fail, but I just burned through that percentage in two fucking games.

Doesn’t mean anything. Can’t.

Breathe, fucker. You’re fine.

I lean against the back of the bench and drag in a deeper breath, forcing control back into place. Just a fucking fluke.

“Next drive,” I call out, loud enough that my teammates can hear over the noise. “We’re putting seven on the board.” Anything else is unacceptable.

They nod like they believe it.

Like they always believe it.

I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands again, and force everything back into place.

Quarterbacks are leaders, Cole. They’re expected to exude greatness. If you don’t think you can be either, then get your ass back on the bench like those other pansy-asses and don’t bother coming home.

“Hey, Valor?”

I glance over. Lucas Hale, the revered but retired quarterback, now one of our offensive coordinators and dare I say, mentor, stands there, eyes assessing and expression knowing.

I lift my chin in acknowledgment.

“Shit happens,” he says. “Not every game’s a stat booster. We’ve all been there.”

He holds my gaze. He’s been in this headspace before, so he gets it . . . but he didn’t grow up the way I did.