Page 89 of After the Snap

Jubal gives him the same innocent expression he gave me. “They’re fine.”

“I’ve been coaching too long for that to work on me.”

When Jubal glances at me, I bite the inside of my cheek because we’ve both reached the same conclusion about his definition of fine.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.” Dad adjusts the strap on his shoulder, then adds, “And don’t start watching film until midnight. Whatever you think you need to fix will still be there tomorrow.”

Jubal huffs out a laugh. “Are you planning to take your own advice?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not sure this lead-by-example thing is working.”

Dad laughs, and I go still. It isn’t the joke itself that catches me, but how easily Jubal makes it and how lightly Dad takes it. There’s no careful distance in the exchange. Dad gives him a look that should end the conversation, while Jubal grins like he already knows it won’t.

I know the difference between Dad tolerating someone and genuinely enjoying having them around, and Jubal has found his way into the second category. Dad doesn’t know he’s the reason I came here tonight, and Jubal is standing close enough to touch while neither of us can acknowledge that in front of him. Until tonight, keeping us a secret has felt like something that existed mostly between Jubal and me, but watching them together makes the cost of that secrecy feel wider.

Jubal looks at me, his expression softening when he catches whatever changed on my face. “You okay, Calliope?”

With Dad standing beside us, there is no room for the genuine answer. “Yeah.”

His gaze stays on mine long enough that I know he doesn’t entirely believe me, but he doesn’t push. Tuck calls something from farther down the hall, drawing Jubal’s attention before he looks back at Dad.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Coach.”

“Get some sleep.”

Jubal starts walking away, but before he follows Tuck, his eyes find mine again.

“Night, Calliope.”

“Good night, Duvall.”

Calling him that with Dad standing a few feet away shouldn’t bother me, but “Old Man” almost slips out instead. Jubal hasn’t called me Calliope in weeks either, and hearing it makes the distance we’re pretending exists between us harder to ignore, especially when all I want to do is follow him instead of standing here pretending I only came for Dad.

I watch Jubal until he disappears around the corner, only realizing then that Dad is already heading toward the exit.

“You coming, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I am your ride, after all.”

Dad chuckles as I catch up with him, falling easily into conversation about the game while we make our way outside. He’s too pleased with the win to question why his daughter suddenly decided to collect him from work, and I’m more than happy to let him keep talking.

He continues through most of the drive home, but my thoughts keep returning to the facility and the way Jubal looked when he saw me. His happiness was there before he could hide it, and I believed it without searching his expression for something I might be missing, just like I believed him last night when he said he missed me.

Realizing how naturally I’ve started taking Jubal at his word scares me more than questioning him ever could, because I’ve already trusted him enough to give him the chance to hurt me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jubal

The visitor locker room is on the opposite side of the stadium from the one I spent eleven years walking into. Whoever designed this place apparently decided both teams needed the same concrete walls, fluorescent lights, and ventilation system that carries the smell of fresh-cut grass inside before anyone opens the tunnel doors. I know where those doors lead without looking at them, even though eleven years of muscle memory keeps trying to orient me toward a home locker room. None of that knowledge is useful, but my body hasn’t figured that out yet.

I tighten the strap on my left cleat as King argues with Sullivan about whether the crowd booing us during warmups qualifies as a personal attack. Tuck is wrapping tape around his wrists a few lockers down, ignoring them with enough determination that he’s clearly listening to every word.

“They weren’t booing us,” Sullivan says. “They were booing Duvall.”