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Coach Darden, the man who taught me how to square up and take a hit without flinching, who used to call mekillerbecause once I locked onto something, I didn’t let go. The one who helped me escape when I needed to the most.

I drag in a breath, sharp enough to sting my lungs.

Not the end.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe there’s still one more door I haven’t kicked open yet.

I type back, thumbs clumsy:

Me:

Thanks, Coach. I won’t.

I set the phone down gently, like it’s carrying something bigger than just hope. Like, maybe it’s carrying a piece of me I forgot I still had.

But, for now—for this one minute—I sit here, alone in the dark, and decide I’m not dead yet.

Later, when I’m dumping out the champagne glasses we never finished, I hear her in the other room—voice low, sharp, half-hissing into the phone.

“No, Dad, you don’t understand. Miguel still knows people. He could’ve pulled some strings.” A pause, sharp and bitter. “You said the Jets were an option. Yousaid.I told everyone?—”

I block her out. Pretend I don’t hear her. Pretend I don’t know she’s fighting for a version of me that’s never coming.

I fall asleep on the couch, half-dressed, draft dreams crumbling to ash in the back of my head.

* * *

I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m lying on a hard-ass couch, phone glowing in my hands, fingers scrolling uselessly through IG, doing my best to like and congratulate my old teammates.

When I’ve gotten them all, I lay my phone on my chest and try to think about what’s next.

If football didn’t work out, I had a plan. Not a glamorous one, not the kind you tell people about at fancy parties, but a plan that makes sense to me.

I figured if I couldn’t play, I’d coach.

Start at some small high school program, maybe work my way into college ball eventually. Work fourteen-hour days for pennies, breaking down film until my eyes crossed, riding buses to cold Friday night games with kids who think they’re invincible.

I wouldn’t mind.

Because football is the only thing that ever made sense.

It’s not just a game. It’sthelanguage. The thing that taught me how to survive when nothing else did, when life got loud, and ugly, and mean.

I thought—stupidly, maybe—that if I stayed close enough to it, it wouldn’t feel like I lost everything when the dream slipped away.

But sitting here now, lights off, I’m not sure that’s for me.

Because you can teach a kid how to plant his feet and square his shoulders, but you can’t teach yourself how to stop feeling like a failure.

Because I know it won’t be enough. Not for her.

Deborah’s father made sure I understood that real clear the night we got married.

Big fancy lawyer, all silver hair and sharp eyes, pulling me aside with a bourbon in his hand and that voice, and a prenuptial agreement for me to sign.

“You want her? Fine. You make damn sure you take care of her the way she deserves. The way I expect. Or I’ll break you.”