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Helmet to hip. Not illegal. Not dirty. Just ... perfect.

Pain shoots down my leg like fire. My knee wobbles, but I plant anyway, spin forward for the extra yard, and hit the ground on my back, breath gone.

The sky swims. I hear Skinner shout, “Yo, Kolby, you good?”

I sit up fast. Too fast. Grit my teeth and nod. I lie, “Good.”

The trainers try to get close. I wave them off. “I’m fine. Tape’s just loose.”

They don’t push. Maybe because my eyes saydon’t.Maybe because we’ve all got something taped tighter than it should be today.

Next play, I block. I move slower. Drive off the wrong foot. I can feel it swelling, but I stay in. Because it’s game day. Because Lo’s somewhere in the stands. Becausehe’sstill out there, and I’m not running away.

Same stance. Same stare. Same heat behind his helmet. But he’s getting sloppier. Slower. Pissed.

Fourth quarter, we break another run—Warren hits a seam, fifty yards up the sideline—and Cross is chasing, frustrated, out of position. He dives late at Warren’s knees. Flag flies before Warren even hits the turf.

I’m screaming before I realize it’s me doing it. “You don’t touch my QB like that, you fucking pussy!”

Players swarm around us. Coaches are pulling bodies apart. And Cross? He’s ejected.

Rule 12, Section 2, Article 10(b)—a flagrant personal foul, such as a low hit on a quarterback outside the pocket, with excessive force or clear intent.

He rips off his helmet and throws it against the bench. It bounces once, skips into the cooler. And I know—know—this is it. The moment everything he worked for could crack wide open.

He looks across the field. At me. Eyes wild. Hurt, and furious, and unraveling.

And I’m pissed. Not just because he hit Warren. Not even because of the flag. But because he’s throwing it away. His rookie year. His shot. The one thing we both lived for. And now he’s watching the rest of the game from the locker room tunnel like a goddamn cautionary tale.

I shake it off. Barely. Because Lo told me to win the damn game, and I told her I would.

The game ends, and the Knights win by three.

* * *

Lo meets me inside. “You did it!”

I scoop her up and hug her tight.

“Need him for press, Lo,” Coach Cohen says as he breezes by.

I kiss her first. “That was for you. Be back.”

“Be waiting.” She beams.

The postgame press room is packed. Hot. Loud. Lights too bright, questions flying faster than hits did today. And I should feel good. Two touchdowns. A full game’s worth of reps in a position that isn’t even mine. My name on highlight reels. My stat line on fire. We won. I should feel proud. I should be with Lo.In Lo …

Instead, I’m gripping the edge of the podium, nodding through questions like I’m not already counting the seconds until I can call Coach D and tell him Cross needs help … again and get back to her, to now, right fucking now.

A reporter fromThe Postleans forward, mic in hand. “Kolby, huge day for you. What’s it feel like stepping into Boone’s role and delivering like that?”

I nod, giving the answer I’ve already rehearsed. “Boone’s one of the best. I’m just trying to hold it down until he’s back. Do my job. Be where the team needs me.”

Flashbulbs pop. Another voice cuts in.

“Talk about the ankle. Saw you limping off the field?—”

“Just rolled it. Tape did its job. I’m good.”