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* * *

The convoy pulls out of The Stables like we’re heading into battle, not practice. Two black SUVs are in front of the line, and another trailing behind.

“They really went full Secret Service,” Skinner mutters, staring out the window.

Hart doesn’t say much. Hasn’t since the message.

Neither have I.

We pass through Main Street, where the shop windows are covered in black and gold. Flags flying and banners hanging. Blue Valley is tiny; you blink, you miss it.

“What this place misses in size, it sure as hell makes up for in loyalty and support,” Hart says like he’s reading my mind.

“So, what you’re saying is Riley wasn’t expecting much when she saw what you were packing. Her disappointment was just no big?” Skinner holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“Does the job.” He chuckles.

Legacy Field rises ahead. A dream once, now there’s a different feeling here. Bigger. More … important. Less like a dream, more like something worth standing for. I don’t mind at all. A fortress built around my team, even if it’s temporary.

When we pull through the gated side entrance, I count six new guards—all jacked, earpieces in. Their presence works everyone up, but they bring me calm.

Duffle bag slung over my shoulder, holding everything I’ll ever really need, I follow the team inside. No locker room stop. Just the meeting room.

The air’s cold. Fluorescent lights hum. Two walls are covered with whiteboards, all filled with notes in blocky handwriting: new routes, adjustments, shifts in blocking schemes.

Boone’s name is circled in red.

Under it:Grimes fill-in package.

Fill in …

“All right, lock in,” Coach Cohen says, nodding as we take our seats. “Grimes, you’re sliding into Boone’s spot. We’ll adjust the cadence so you’re not exposed on the blitz. Hart, Skinner, you’ve got rotations doubling your routes. Yes, even you, Skinner. Congratulations, you’ll sweat today.”

Skinner raises a hand. “I’ll still be pretty.”

Coach ignores him and keeps going.

The plays come fast, detailed. We’re switching tempo. Prepping for the game like it’s a chess game, and they’ve got a stacked backfield we have to grind down before they open us up.

I memorize everything. Not just because I want to. Because Ihaveto.

Football has kept my heart beating for years, and it will keep it going forever.

This is the shot I wasn’t supposed to get. The position I thought I’d buried when the draft didn’t call my name. And now here I am, in the position Boone should be in, staring at a playbook that demands everything from me.

At some point, Skinner leans close and whispers, “You good?”

I nod once. “I’m ready.”

And I am.

Even if the ground under our feet is shifting. Even if the silence around me is louder than it should be. I’m ready.

Because when the whistle blows, none of it matters. Just the play. The hit. The win.

* * *

Everyone starts filing out of the meeting room, voices low, energy twitchy; half of them due to the circumstance, me and others hungry for a win.