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Drake

I know what they think of me.

The draft bust. The PR disaster. The guy who’s only here because he has no other choice.

I don’t blame them. As I drive to the training facility, I try to block those thoughts from my mind—and replace them with my new mantra. I can do hard things .

I’ve spent enough time pretending I don’t care what people think to know when I actually do. And right now? I need these guys to believe in me. Not because I need a redemption story. Not because I want the media to stop talking about my past.

Because I need a team again.

I step onto the practice field early, the Miami sun already making my jersey stick to my back.

Most of the guys are still in the locker room or getting taped up, but a few are out here— some linemen, a couple of receivers, J-Rich included.

He spots me and shakes his head, still not convinced I’m worth his time.

“Look who decided to show up early,” he says, voice dripping with skepticism.

I don’t take the bait. I set my bag down and pull out my cleats. “Figured I’d get some extra work in. Run routes with whoever’s around.”

He snorts. “You volunteering for scout team now?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

That gets his attention. He exchanges a look with one of the other receivers. “Alright, QB. Let’s see what you got.”

I spend the next twenty minutes throwing to whoever’s willing. Not just to the starters, but to the rookies, the guys grinding for a roster spot, the ones nobody expects to make the team. I make sure they get reps. I make sure they know I see them.

When practice officially starts, I keep my head down and do the work. Every rep, every drill, I go all-in. No cutting corners. No excuses.

Then, the moment comes.

End of practice. Two-minute drill. Defense is blitzing, pressure coming fast. The safe play is to check it down, take the easy yards. But I see it—J-Rich breaking free down the sideline.

It’s a tight window.

A throw I wouldn’t have risked a year ago.

A throw I wouldn’t have trusted my line to block for a year ago.

But this isn’t a year ago.

I step up, plant my feet, and fire—just as our defense gets through. They don’t tackle me—not in practice—but I feel their hands on me as I watch the ball. It sails just over the corner’s outstretched hands and lands perfectly in J-Rich’s arms, hitting him in stride. Touchdown.

The guys explode, the energy shifting, something real clicking into place.

J-Rich jogs back toward me, spinning the ball in his hands. He doesn’t grin, doesn’t let me off the hook that easy. But he nods, just once.

“Nice ball, QB.”

It’s not much.

But it’s a start.

That afternoon, after an ill-advised conversation with Carlos, I’m speaking with a private investigator about trying to find Red.

I’m in a dodgy part of Miami, squeezed into a too-tight office, with flickering fluorescent lights and a ceiling fan that wobbles like it’s one revolution away from decapitation.

I’m sitting across from a guy who comes “highly recommended” from Carlos’s cousin’s neighbor’s friend.

And, yes, the scent I’m wearing this afternoon is Eau De Desperation.

I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes catching him up on my situation—while he types one-fingered at an insanely rapid clip. I’m serious, this guy might be up for a Guinness World Record for fastest typing with one finger.

When I’m done, he spends a long moment reading over what he typed and then leans back in his creaking seat.

“So let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” he says, ticking things off on his fingers.

“You met her the night of September 20, 2024 at the Miami Improv. You spoke outside for approximately fifteen minutes—mostly while you removed lipstick from her face, correct?”

I nod.

“Then you went to a second location—Ball and Chain—where you danced with her, didn’t learn her name, didn’t get her phone number in your phone, but did acquire it on a cocktail napkin you then lost when you got arrested.”

“Yup.”

“You don’t know where she’s from, what she does, or even if she gave you a real number?”

“Also correct.”

“And the only descriptors you’ve got are that she was wearing either a blue dress or maybe a purple one, has red lipstick, and possibly lives in Florida.”

I groan. “Yeah, that’s all I’ve got.”

Charles leans back so far in his seat I’m afraid it’s going to fall over and then folds his hands over his stomach.

“Well, I gotta tell you, I’ve worked missing persons, insurance fraud, even tracked a runaway show dog once.

But I don’t think I’ve ever started a case with less to go on. So thanks for that.”

I scratch at my neck. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not,” I say, because keeping thoughts in my head has never been my strong suit.

He shrugs. “A little. But also, I’m bored and this feels like a puzzle.”

“Great. I’m glad my personal unraveling entertains you.”

Charles doesn’t smile, but his left eye twitches. I think that’s his version of a laugh.

“I’ll do what I can. Don’t expect miracles, Mr. Blythe. Or refunds.”

“Oh, I never do,” I mutter, pulling out my wallet.