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Twenty-eight doesn’t feel old. Not until I get dragged by a bunch of footballers ten years younger than me. Then? Then it feels ancient.

“Arm sore, captain?” Reed catches me rotating my shoulder on the sideline after showing the Coolidge quarterbacks how to throw the cross route.

“I’m fine, old man. You keep your arthritis cream to yourself. I don’t need it yet,” I tease. Honestly, though? I could maybe use a little.

Spring ball at the high school is always a shit show. We get a lot of the hopefuls out, guys who probably shouldn’t be in the game of football but always wanted to try. or their parents want them to play. We play touch in the spring, then seven-on-seven in the summer with flag rules, but tackles happen. Only the solid guys come out for that. We travel, so it’s not worth the expense for guys who aren’t serious about the game. It’s where guys get the early college looks, too. It’s what got me my offers.

“Hey, Coach Stone? Does this look broken?” Brady, a sophomore who should not come out for summer or fall, holds up his elbow. He’s got a good raspberry. It’s not even bleeding anymore.

I pat his helmet and smile.

“I think you’ll be fine, Brady. Maybe check out the summer track program, though. You’re fast as hell.” He’s decently fast. He’s better at running than he is at throwing and catching. And at a buck-twenty, maybe, he’s not built to take a tackle. I wouldn’t feel right encouraging him to be out here.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it.”

I’m glad to hear him say that.

“Well, if you do, I’ll come to your meets.”

“Okay.” He nods and smiles.

I keep my promises to the kids. There are a few players I’ve encouraged to go other directions for safety reasons or their own mental health, and I always support their new paths. Kai, a guy who had one hell of a foot but was jittery under the pressure of Friday night lights, found a good home guarding the net for our soccer team. I’ve been to all his starts since he was a freshman. He’s a senior now and looking to play in college.

“You’re good with them—the young ones.” Reed squints from the sun. It’s hot out today.

“Thanks. Hey, maybe I’ll get the head coaching gig when this old fossil retires,” I jest.

He glowers at me, then snags a full cup of cold water from the bench and tosses it at my face.

“Ah, fuck. Okay, yeah. I deserved that,” I say, wiping the droplets from my eyes and smoothing back my hair before pushing my hat back on my head.

The spring guys are running laps, so Reed and I start to pick up. I’ve been coaching with him for five years now, since the combine came and went when I was twenty-three. I really thought I had it. We all did. But it wasn’t my year. I’m not sure I would have been ready right out of college either. I have zero regrets, even though Peyton always asks if I do. I understand where she’s coming from, but my life’s work is making sure she never feels an ounce of guilt for anything. I made my choices then, and I’d make them again. Spending the year with her—every follow-up surgery, the work she put in? It was inspiring to the human spirit. Ain’t no game of football that would give me that. And now that we’re trying to have kids—man, I’m a lucky has-been, and I’m good with that.

But the competition? Yeah, I miss it a little. It’s what makes coaching so satisfying. And I feel like I have a lot to teach. Hell, sometimes I learn more out here than the young guys do. The things I’ve added to my football IQ over the last five years sure would have served me well in college. Maybe would have helped my combine showing too. Who knows?

“Well, I’ll be damned. They’ll really just let anyone on campus, won’t they?” Reed says.

I follow his gaze to the gate by the track. I haven’t seen Bryce Hampton since he got drafted. I probably should have stayed in touch, but it was awkward, him getting the call and me not. And then he washed out in two years, and that felt extremely awkward.

“I guess that former Coolidge High QB title carries a lot of weight,” Reed says, pulling his hat off and swinging an arm around Bryce.

Bryce rubs Reed’s balding head, and I laugh, having done it myself a few times. Once today. Reed sneers at us both, then pushes his hat back on. He shaves what hair he’s got up there, which is a good look on him, but it’s harsh in the sun. At fifty-two, I’m glad he’s not so proud that he doesn’t take care of himself. Mostly. He still drinks too much beer for having a family-history of heart problems. His dad is still kicking, though, which is the point he always brings up when Nolan warns him off the red meat.

“Bryce, good to see ya, man,” I say, pulling him in for a hug. His beard is thick, but it’s patchy in places. Mine is better. I’ll always be trying to one-up this dude.

“You’re actually the reason I’m out here. You got a minute?” he says, glancing at Reed in a way that makes me feel as though he wants to chat with me alone.

“You know what? I’ll get these little shits to finish picking up the field, then head in. Stop by the office before you leave, though. I want to catch up and hear all about what you’re doing now.”

Reed shakes Bryce’s hand.

“For sure. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Bryce says.

He drops his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’s wearing a deep gray polo and sunglasses that look expensive as shit.

“You look more like a golfer every day,” I tease, leading him over to the bench. I offer him a paper cup of water, and he chuckles as he takes it.

“I’m probably a better golfer than NFL quarterback, so that’s for the best,” he says, tipping the cup back and gulping the water down.

“What’s up?”

I take a seat on one end of the bench as he sits on the other, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them in his collar. Leaning forward and balancing his elbows on his knees, his gaze swings in my direction. He breathes out a short laugh, his mouth pulled into a tight smile that I can’t read.

“You talk to Jason lately?” he asks.

My chest tightens a little, and I shake my head.

“Not this week, but, I mean, yeah. We’ve talked.”

Bryce nods slowly, and I start to feel a little uneasy.

“What . . . Bryce, what’s this about?”

He leans back, stretching an arm out along the back of the metal bench as he squints into the sun.

“You played that semi-league a few months back, with the Rattlers?”

I nod, then utter, “Yes.” How does he know that? Is he stalking me? It’s a minor, minor, minor league. I did it for fun, to hang out with Whiskey and see if I still had it. We won the league, but that meant five grand, which mostly went to taxes.

“Portland noticed,” he says.

I stare at him until he turns his head my way and repeats his words slowly.

“Portland. They noticed.” His eyebrows lift.

I tuck my chin and gurgle a belly laugh.

“Yeah, they’re all up on the Tyler, Texas news, I’m sure. I bet they’ve got a whole list of QBs staring down thirty.”

“Not a list. A name,” he says, and I realize he’s fucking serious.

“Bryce, I’m . . . I can’t hang with that anymore.”

Can I?

He stands up and pulls a card out of his wallet, handing it to me. It’s the same firm Jason’s at. He’s an agent now. He’s dead serious. This conversation is really happening.

“Think about it. Give me a call in a couple of days.”

He slides his sunglasses on and turns halfway, gazing out on the field as he nods at distant memories.

“Those were some pretty great games, weren’t they?”

“Which ones?” I ask, feeling the sharp edges of his card press into the pads of my finger and thumb.

His head swivels back to me, his lip tipping up on one side with a faint laugh.

“All of them, Wyatt. All of them.”

He holds up a hand, and I do too.

“Call me,” he says.

I think I answer, “I will.” I’m not sure if that was out loud, though. And I’m not sure I told the truth if it was. Will I? Do I even want to entertain this?

I glance to my right where Reed is pointing toward the storage shed, directing the gangly group of freshmen to stack the pads neatly. I chuckle silently as I watch—they’re too short to stack them. Reed knows it, too. He’s fucking with them.

I stand up and stuff Bryce’s card into the pocket of my joggers and rotate my arm a few more times. It’s not sore. It’s just . . . out of practice. Especially for throwing so many passes in a row. I wave to Reed as he looks my way, gesturing that I’ll wheel in the cart full of balls. He gives me a thumbs up, then holds out an arm to sling over Bryce as he walks up beside him. I pick up a few stray balls and drop them into the basket, but I keep one in my hand, rotating it with a short toss in the air repeatedly, until Bryce and Reed turn the corner and are out of sight.

Portland noticed, huh?

I had a good summer. It was a lot of fun. Mostly, it was a nice excuse for Peyt and I to get away with Tasha and Whiskey. Since they got married and had twins, double dates have been hard to manage, and getaways are impossible. But with the rental house in Texas and the summer off, it was a nice chance to escape and pretend we were young again.

And the lights. The night games under the lights felt . . .

I walk down the field, stopping at the ten-yard line, and toss the ball in my hand a few more times before scanning the landscape for witnesses. Joey, the seventy-year-old guy who works in maintenance, is swapping out a trash bag by the bleachers, but he’s not looking up.

I dig the toes of my shoe into the turf, seeing how well my sneakers grip. These things are orthopedic, so not great. But they’ll do.

With my eyes focused on the way the ball fits in my hand, I tune out the world around me and mentally put myself there—in the game. It’s a clean snap, and I fall back a few yards, checking the pocket, spotting my receivers, nodding to Keaton Jones as he turns at the sideline and sprints to the fifty. The defense is rushing so I have to spin and run wide right to buy more time. There are three seconds left. This is it—game on the line. One final play.

I sling the ball with all I’ve got and fall back a few steps, imagining the blow I’d take if this were real. The ball spins tight, cutting through the air, on track to hit Keaton mid-stride. Nobody’s guarding him. It’s a clear shot to the end zone.

My ball crashes into the middle of the cart, knocking it sideways and spilling the fifteen balls inside it in all different directions. My gaze pops up a tick to Joey, whistling with his fingers in his mouth.

“You still got it, Coach!” He waves, and I wave back.

I rotate my arm a few more times, expecting to feel something. And I do. I feel . . . good. Better than good. I jog to my mess and pick the balls up, tossing them in one at a time, but I keep one out and tuck it in under my bicep as I push the rest into the shed. I hold onto it as I hike across the parking lot to my truck, and I keep it nestled safely in my grasp as I stare out at the high school field of my old rival, where I now coach.

Portland noticed.