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Chapter Twenty-Seven

T hat felt amazing.

Every single second I was on that field was euphoria. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to feel that again, but now that I have, well, it’s going to make walking away even harder.

“Dude, you owned it out there today. Nice work!” Cisco pats my back as he passes me on his way out of the locker room.

“Brother!”

Whiskey steps in front of me, dressed and ready to head out. He’s flying back with the team since the girls have started school in Portland so Tasha didn’t come out for the trip. Their life is there now.

I hug my friend and fill with memories of what this was like years ago, when we first met, as well as our unforgettable college years.

“You gave them a lot to think about,” he says, his hands fisting my shoulders.

I nod, but I can’t seem to get myself over this hump of doubt.

“Hey, you killed it! If you were taking the jet home with us, I’d be getting you shitfaced with me as soon as we land,” my friend says. “You know. To celebrate.”

I chuckle and pat his chest.

“Sure, to celebrate. Has nothing to do with you going home and having to watch dance recital rehearsals for the seventieth time.”

“Dude, it’s so bad,” Whiskey grumbles. It’s partly in jest, but also, Tasha is well on her way to becoming quite the passionate dance mom. Their girls have been learning jazz dance since they moved to Portland, and their first recital is coming up. Whiskey says practices have been . . . intense.

“Just wait until they start noisy tap classes,” I tease.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my friend grumbles as he walks away.

It’s just me and Chance in here now. He’s still sitting in the trainer’s room, alone. The team had him checked out at the nearby neuro center, and the docs advised him to fly home tomorrow just in case. Concussions and flying aren’t a great combo. We’ll be on the same plane.

Shit.

Peyton and the family are waiting for me, but there’s this heaviness to the air that I can’t seem to shake.

Maybe talking to Chance will help. I pull my travel bag out of the cubby and tuck my wallet and headphones inside before sliding it over my shoulder.

Chance’s legs are dangling from the trainer’s table.

He’s still wearing his team shorts and the blue Nike slides he wore to the medical center in.

I take a deep breath and head toward him, knocking on the door jamb to snap him out of his daze.

“Oh, hey,” he says with a nod.

He looks miserable. I’ve been there.

“I heard they’re taking it day-to-day?” I quirk a brow.

His shoulders lift with a silent laugh.

“Yeah, but you know that’s just something they say. I’m probably sitting out next game, so . . . bet you’re happy.”

“Hey,” I breathe out, my head falling to the side. “Don’t do that. I’m not happy about you getting hurt. And it really might be day-to-day. You never know. Thursday comes and you check out fine, get cleared for practice, and then there you are, back in the shotgun taking Cisco’s fucked up snaps.”

Chance laughs out loud this time.

“He is inconsistent as fuck,” he says.

We both shake our heads.

“Nice job handling that one he shot over your head, though. There were almost two of us on concussion watch,” Chance adds.

“Right? That was a mess.”

I flatten my hand over my head. My hair is still wet from my shower. I’m glad there isn’t an enormous knot on it. The pocket closed on me fast for that play. How the hell we got out of that and ended up with a field goal beats me.

“So, hey. What are you doing for the night? You just heading back to the hotel or . . .”

It’s barely three in the afternoon, and he doesn’t have family in the area.

Yeah, his agent stuck around, but . . . who wants to spend the afternoon with their agent?

I mean, Bryce and I have found our way with one another, but I still don’t want to room with the dude or hang out at the sports bar.

And Chance can’t even have a beer now. At least, he shouldn’t.

“I guess. I don’t know. I was thinking maybe I’d just sit here until they kick my ass out,” he says through a soft laugh.

I nod and drop my gaze to his swinging feet. Twenty-two. Still very much a kid.

My eyes lift to meet his, and I lean my head over my shoulder a tick.

“Come with me,” I say.

His face screws up, like I said something crazy. Probably because this is crazy, but it’s the right thing to do.

“I’m good, man,” he says, frowning.

“Nah. You aren’t. Come with me. It’s homecoming week in our town, and they do this parade thing. It’s a good time. I promise.”

His twisted lips have gotten tighter, his brow crease deeper, but I continue to stare at him and urge him to just give in.

“ Pfff , fine. Fuck it,” he finally says, hopping off the table and dragging his leather travel bag with him.

He lets it dangle at his side, banging against his right leg as we make our way through the locker room.

Everything from his gait to his posture reminds me of the high school kids when they get caught ditching class in the hallways and sent back to their rooms.

“You know, you’re gonna get hurt in this sport. Probably a lot,” I say as we shuffle our way through the concourse toward the lobby by the suite elevators.

“Yeah. I’ve been through this before. I had a good knock in high school. Probably more than one, but ya know . . . I kept my mouth shut about the others, so I didn’t get pulled.” His gaze shifts sideways to meet mine, and I pull my mouth in tight.

“Oh, like you never did that shit,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

I let out a heavy breath.

“No, I did. I never fucked around with head injuries, though. But my shoulder? My knee? Oh, yeah. When I’m fifty, there are going to be a lot of discoveries when doctors replace joints on my body.”

Simply thinking about my knee in college makes me want to limp.

I slow my pace, and when Chance realizes he’s several steps ahead of me, he stops and turns to face me. I shake my head and stop moving when our eyes meet.

“I’m just saying . . . you’re their guy. So don’t worry about missing half of a game, or a game or two, because of a concussion. They’re protecting their investment. We both know I’m just passing through. So maybe, dude . . . let me fucking help you get better.”

Chance’s hard swallow is a rare sight. I think it means he’s considering my words for real this time, not just performatively.

I’ve been busting my ass for a month trying to give him advice.

He nods when I talk as if he’s listening, but then he goes right back out and repeats the same mistakes.

It’s not only with me, either. It’s with Phillips and Elgin, and other guys on the team, too.

He doesn’t listen. He’s not coachable. And that is what’s going to cut his career short. Not a fucking concussion.

“Before I got this shot, I was coaching with my father-in-law. You know Reed Johnson, right?”

He chuckles because, yeah, of course he does. Who doesn’t.

“Well, I learned a lot from him. I’m not selfish with football shit. Let me share it with you, yeah?”

He nods slowly, and eventually says, “Yeah. I hear you. I’m down, man.”

I hold out my fist, and his gaze drops to it. He bumps it with his after a second, and the two of us start walking toward the glass doors where my family is waiting.

“Sorry I’ve been a dick,” he mutters a few steps away from the lobby.

“It’s fine. I get it,” I say, letting him off the hook. Because honestly? I do get it. It’s what we do in this world. We’re hostile, resentful beings sometimes, who feel threatened and lash out. But damn, imagine if we weren’t.

I expect the surprise we’re greeted with on my family members’ faces. But Peyton shocks me when she moves toward Chance with open arms. I think it takes him off-guard, too, because he gives me a sideways glance that looks a lot like panic.

“How are you feeling?” Peyton asks as she hugs Chance. He towers over her, his arms awkwardly wrapping around her while he keeps his fingers flexed as if he’s making sure I know he’s not fully touching her.

“Dude, you can hug my wife.”

He shakes his head and laughs.

“Yeah, I don’t know. That’s not how we are in my family. You hug my girlfriend and I’m kicking your ass.”

I chuckle and shrug.

“That’s fair.”

Reed and Chance shake hands, and I introduce him to Nolan, my mom and Jeff.

Chance’s eyebrows lift a hint when his gaze pauses on Jeff’s fire shirt, a commemorative T-shirt from the last public safety football game he played in with my dad.

He doesn’t remark on it, but when our eyes meet as we follow my family out into the players’ lot, he gives me a quick nod.

“Reed, you mind if Chance takes the guest room tonight? He and I are both flying out tomorrow, and you know how shitty concussion protocol is when you’re alone.”

“Sure!” Reed says without pause.

“I don’t want to put anyone out?—”

“Chance . . . trust me.” I grab his forearm, and he looks me in the eyes. “They’ve got the room.”

We pile into Reed and Nolan’s SUV when the valet pulls up, and my mom and Jeff hop into Jeff’s truck behind us.

Chance is from Texas originally, so the desert isn’t exactly new to him.

But Dallas isn’t like Phoenix. There are still trees and lots of green where he grew up, so when we pass through Phoenix and hit the outskirts of the Native American reservation, the sudden show of saguaros, tumbleweeds, and rolling hills of rock and dried-up washes seems to mesmerize him.

The outskirts of Coolidge is in view soon after, the new builds with master planned parks like a strange oasis in the middle of the desert.

The retirement homes have been out here for years, along with the golf course that could use a good rain.

The grass is yellowing. The remaining dairy farms come next, then the small mile-long strip through the historic downtown, including the park square that is already filled with volunteers gearing up for tonight’s festivities. The parade was this morning.