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I ignore him. Focus on the cadence. The count. My breathing.

Then he mutters, “Still running, aren’t you?”

My jaw tightens.

“You see that tape on your wrist?” he sneers. “What’s it say—Never Look Back?” He laughs, low and bitter. “That’s real poetic, Runaway.”

That one lands like a hit before the snap.

I lower my stance, the ball snaps, and I explode through the line like I’ve been shot out of a cannon. The hole opens just enough. One cut. One stiff arm. A second gear I wasn’t sure I still had, and I am gone.

The end zone is ahead of me—green fading into paint, cleats hammering, crowd swelling. For one clean moment, I forget the noise, the past, the weight.

Touchdown!

My first in Boone’s position. My name on the screen.

I never looked for anyone in the stands in an obvious way. I didn’t want to get caught—she wasn’t mine. But now? Hell yes, I look up and spot her immediately. I hold up my fingers and mouth, “You.” Then I drop the ball and turn.

Cross is right there, shoving me in the chest.

“You score, and suddenly you think you’re the shit? You’re not better than me! You’re nothing, Runaway.”

I shove him back. “Don’t be a dumb-ass rookie!”

“You think she’d be proud of you?” His helmet knocks mine. “Ofyou?”

I see red as he grabs my jersey.

Fuck this.

I grab his. A tangle of rage, and years, and everything we’ve never said boils up.

Flags fly.

Whistles blow.

Teammates yank us apart, but I’m still barking. Still seething.

Hart’s in my face now. “Breathe, Grimes.”

Coach T shouts, “Back it down! Grimes!”

Cross is hauled back and to the sideline by his linemen, jaw still moving behind his visor. Me? I don’t look back. I head to the sideline where my team is celebrating the first drive.

“Way to start us off, man, but clean it up. We need you in this.” Coach Cohen pats my back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Third quarter. Tied game. Everything fucking hurts.

There’s blood on my jersey—some mine, some not. My ankle’s been barking since the second drive, but adrenaline’s doing its job. So yeah, it’s denial.

Until it isn’t.

We’re mid-drive, second and short, and I get the ball again—cut inside, lower the shoulder, and just before I hit the gap, Cross is there.