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Drake

I ’ve watched the same busted play five times now, and I still flinch every time the ball sails past my receiver’s outstretched hands.

Coach Medina pauses the footage and glances over his shoulder at me. “Want to tell me what happened here?”

I scrub a hand over my jaw, itching for a Dr. Pepper. “I rushed it. Tried to force it instead of letting the route develop.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tried to force it, or didn’t trust your line to give you one more second?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. We both know what it was. Old habits. Fear. That little voice in my head that says get out now before it blows up.

He rewinds. Plays it again. And again, I see it—the hesitation. The way my footwork shifts half a beat too early. That’s all it takes. That’s all it ever takes.

“You’ve got the arm. You’ve got the reads. You know what you don’t have yet?”

“Trust?”

He grunts. “Restraint. You’ve been the guy who makes things happen on the fly your whole life. But we don’t need a backyard baller. We need a field general.”

I nod, jaw tight. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I think about Austin Taylor, the QB from the Bucs who took my spot. He’s the ultimate field general—a fact I admit begrudgingly.

We watch the rest of the footage, with Coach pausing it and pointing out insights. I take notes, ask questions, and let my pride take the hit so my game can improve. It’s a trade I should’ve made a long time ago.

At the end, he claps me on the shoulder. “Get your head ready for the scrimmage this afternoon, Blythe. Show me you can sit in the pocket and take the hit.”

“Yes, sir,” I say as Coach walks out, leaving me in the darkened film room—alone.

We’re down four in the scrimmage. Last drive. Two minutes on the clock. Just like our last game.

But this time, I’m not thinking about highlight reels or proving anything. I’m thinking about execution.

My fingers wrap around the laces. My line shifts. I can hear the D-line barking across the way, trying to throw me off my rhythm.

I drop back, eyes scanning. Pressure builds on the edge. Instinct says move . Run . Bail .

But I stay. I can do hard things , I tell myself.

I plant. Wait. I know J-Rich will be open in three… two…

A helmet slams into my ribs just as I fire. My shoulder stings from the impact, and I hit the turf hard enough to see stars.

But when I sit up, I hear it—the echo of hands smacking pads. The cheer from our offensive bench.

Coach Medina nods at me from the sideline, arms crossed, chin lifted just slightly.

And downfield?

Complete.

Forty-yard gain.

I smile. I can do hard things.

Back in the locker room, I’m shaking turf pellets from my helmet and pulling off my pads. My ribs scream every time I breathe, and I’m 97% sure my shoulder is only still attached out of habit. But for the first time in a long time, I feel good. Not because I balled out. Because I stayed in.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t run.

And when I finally check my phone, still lying on the bench beside my helmet, there’s a text waiting for me.

Lyla

Still on for tonight?

Me

Did the flowers give you the impression I was backing out? ;) I’m sending a driver to pick you up because the timing with practice is tight, hope that’s okay.

I think for a moment and then add: I can’t wait to see you.

I stare at it for a second, then hit send. No overthinking. No backing out.

Sometimes you’ve got to stay in the pocket—even when it hurts—and trust that something beautiful will come out of it.