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Kickoff at 3:05.

You are the front line of this war.

Win the point of attack, and we’ll take them.

I don’t reply. Not because I don’t respect him—Cox is the kind of man I’d follow into a real war—but because words don’t mean much now. Not until the first snap. Not until I put my hands on someone and make them feel it. Feel that the field is mine.

* * *

Breakfast is fuel, not flavor. I sit alone at the edge of the dining hall, hoodie up, head down, earbuds in.

“Hello darkness, my old friend...”

The first strum of “The Sound of Silence” hits my bloodstream like a drug. It plays on a loop, over and over. The Disturbed version.

The noise of the team around me fades. All that’s left is muscle memory and breath.

I get taped. Ankles first, right then left. Hands. Wrists. Thumb loop tight. Black Sharpie across the tape, three words.

Never. Look. Back.

Stretch. Breathe. Don’t talk. Don’t blink too long.

By the time we hit pregame meetings, I’ve built a wall so high around myself I forget what daylight feels like. Coaches bark. Hart claps shoulders. Skinner jokes.

I don’t smile. I don’t respond. They let me be. They know this version of me. The one who played D1 like he had nothing else to live for. The one who bled for a shot and plays like someone’s always trying to take it from him, to end him.

By 2:55, we’re in the tunnel, packed tight, shoulder to shoulder. Pastor Josh does the team prayer. I half-listen, and then … the muttering starts.

Not prayers. Not pump-up lines. Just quiet spears thrown at ghosts only I can see.

“Come for me.”

“Try it.”

“Try to hurt him. I dare you.”

“You won’t get through me.”

“Not today. Not now. Not ever again.”

Skinner once asked what I say down here. I told him, “You don’t want to know.”

I keep my head low, flex my fingers once, then again.

The team is announced, and we run out. My cleats grip the turf like they know what’s coming. I’m breathing in sync with the thunder of the crowd. And then the music cuts. The coin is tossed, and we’re first on the field.

I step out—crowd tuned out, wall of silence behind me. A war ahead. And not a single part of me afraid.

I line up in Boone’s spot, mine for the rest of the season, and I will not fuck it up.

I glance at Warren, and he gives me a nod.

Hands flexing, heart pounding so loud I swear it rattles my pads. This is my natural position. It’s not the one I was signed to play, but I will dominate.

The Outriders step onto the field, and right across from me, of course, is Cross. His helmet tilts up, and I catch the snarl behind his visor.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”