Page 78 of After the Snap

Keeping this here so when I beat it tomorrow, there’s a witness.

I press send and close my laptop, already looking forward to telling him I beat it.

Chapter Nineteen

Jubal

It’s been eight days since we walked off our home field with the first win of the season, and less than twenty-four hours since we did it again. Two Sundays. Two wins. Enough for the same people who spent August predicting how long it would take Charlotte to look like a functioning football team to spend Monday morning talking about our undefeated start like two games constitute a fucking dynasty.

Inside the building, nobody has enough energy to pretend two wins have made us untouchable. We’ve spent most of the morning going through yesterday one possession at a time, stopping on the mistakes that could easily cost us the win next week. Winning means we get to correct them with another game already in the win column, but it doesn’t make the missed protection or badly timed route disappear.

I shift in my chair, trying to find a position that doesn’t remind me of the linebacker who drove his shoulder into my ribs midway through the fourth quarter yesterday. The hit didn’t keep me from finishing the game, but my body has decided I need a reminder every time I twist too far to the left. Across the room, King has one leg stretched into the aisle and an ice pack balanced over his leg after taking a helmet to the thigh, while Sullivan has been rubbing the same spot at the base of his neck since we sat down.

The Monday after a game is always some version of this. Half the room is held together by ice, tape, and anti-inflammatories while we spend hours watching ourselves do things on film that felt a hell of a lot better when the scoreboard was still moving.

By the time Coach dismisses us, I’m dreading what standing up is going to do to my ribs. I only make it a few steps toward the door before Coach calls my name.

I turn back as the last few guys file into the hallway. “Yeah?”

“Are you happy here?” Coach closes his laptop and leans against the edge of the table.

People ask how I like Charlotte, or whether the trade has been a good fit. I know how to answer those questions. Talk about the team, the organization, and what we’re building here. Give them something that circles back to football because that’s usually what they’re asking about anyway, but that’s not what Coach Quinn is asking.

He’s looking at me as if whether I’m happy matters to him all by itself. I’ve spent so long assuming he brought me here because he needed what I could do with a football in my hand that I’ve never considered he might give a shit about what happens to me after I put it down.

“Yeah,” I say, surprised by how little I have to think about it. “I am.”

“Good.” Coach holds my gaze for another second. “I wanted that for you too.”

I don’t have an answer ready for that. Being wanted for my arm makes sense to me. I know what to do with that kind of value, how to work harder and make sure nobody regrets choosing me, but he isn’t asking me for anything in return.

“Thanks, Coach.”

He nods and reaches for his laptop. “Wednesday, I’m giving you the first half-hour with the receivers. Run what you think needs work before we bring everybody together.”

I search his face for whatever expectation comes with that freedom, but Coach has already picked up his laptop. Apparently, trusting me with thirty minutes of his practice doesn’t require an explanation.

My phone is already in my hand to tell Calliope I’m finally done when I see she’s beaten me to it. There’s a picture of her laptop waiting for me with an 88 circled at the top of the screen.

No changed answers. You may congratulate me without becoming insufferable about it.

The eighty-eight is higher than the score she sent me Thursday. She called Saturday after talking herself out of a correct answer, then texted before yesterday’s game and again afterward. In less than a week, knowing pieces of her day has already stopped feeling new.

Look at you trusting yourself. Good job, Pea.

Her reply comes while I’m still walking.

I specifically said not to become insufferable.

The dots appear, disappear, then come back.

Thank you.

I should put my phone away. I have treatment in twenty minutes, and there will be another message later because that’s what we do now. Instead, I look at the two words she sent me and realize I don’t want to wait for later.

Where are you?

Cafeteria. Why?