Page 8

Drake

A fter my orientation, I try to catch sight of Lyla once more before I leave Play It Forward, but she’s nowhere to be found, even though I linger in the lobby long enough to be a certified stalker.

Seeing her stirs something in me, reminds me of Red—but Lyla is all sass, where Red was all sweet.

Not that I mind—I’d take a mix of both if it were up to me—but there’s something about Lyla that I’m drawn to.

And I don’t think it’s just her pretty face or rocking body.

I get back in my car to head to the Baptist Health Training Complex for my first meeting with the Dolphins.

I should call my mom—I haven’t really talked to her since getting to Miami—but our relationship has been strained since I got arrested.

It’s not really that she hasn’t handled it well, it’s more that every time I talk with her, the guilt resurfaces like a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

Instead, I call my rehab buddy, Carlos. Despite having nothing in common—except for our mutual gift for pouring gasoline on our lives and tossing a match—we became fast friends. I suppose simultaneously torching your life will do that to people.

He’s an independent filmmaker and knows nothing about football. My taste in films trends toward Top Gun and John Wick whereas Carlos’s movies are twisting and require far more brain power than I have. And yet, we get each other in a way that few people do.

“ Mano , que paso ?” Carlos’s voice fills up my car via Bluetooth.

“Just leaving my community service place and heading to the training center. You?”

Carlos skips the question—something we both tend to do when we’re pretending our lives aren’t smoldering wreckage. “Aye, how’d it go?” he asks.

I sigh. “The receptionist is gorgeous but she already hates me.”

“So you’re saying she’s smart, then.”

I laugh easily, even though he’s right. “She’ll come around,” I say faithlessly. “It was just an orientation, they’ll assign me a kid this week. But people around here love the Dolphins, I’m going to bring some swag and I’ll have an instant fan. Shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Uh huh. And what if he hates football?”

“Who hates football?” I scoff.

Carlos’s silence speaks volumes.

“Whatever, man. It’s the least of my worries right now. I gotta figure out how to win over my teammates without getting krunk with them every night.”

“I feel that,” he says honestly. He lets me pry into his life for a few minutes—come to find out he’s facing similar difficulties on the set of his latest film.

These days, it’s become harder and harder to make connections with people when you won’t drink with them.

We commiserate, though neither of us has any genius ideas for how to overcome that barrier.

“Now that you’re back in Miami, you gonna find that girl?” Carlos asks.

I groan, wishing I hadn’t told Carlos about Red. “How am I supposed to find her, Carlos? I don’t even know her name.”

“Well, you know where you saw her last,” he says matter-of-factly. “And you know you lost her number at the police station. You could start there.”

“Oh like I’m going to go to the police station and ask if they can find a cocktail napkin with a girl’s number from a year ago?” I let the sarcasm drip from my voice like barbecue sauce sliding off brisket at a Fourth of July cookout.

“Crazier things have been done in the name of love.”

I scoff. “It’s not love , man. I only met her for a few hours. A year ago .”

“And yet . . . You’re still bringing her up, aren’t you?”

“I believe you brought her up.”

“Yeah, but you answered.”

I laugh at my friend—I don’t agree with him on the love part . . . but this girl really did resonate with me. I am still thinking about her a year later.

We chat for a few more minutes and then I sign off when I get to the training center. I hop out of my truck and stride toward the center as casually as I can. I open the front door with the Dolphins insignia on it, the cold A/C hitting me like a polar vortex.

Ready or not, here I am.

I step into the locker room, and the energy shifts immediately.

It’s subtle—the kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. But I’ve been in enough of these places to know when I’m not welcome. The conversations don’t stop completely, but they dip, guys lowering their voices just enough to let me know they were talking about me before I walked in.

I don’t blame them.

They think they know me. Drake Blythe, the me-first player. The bad boy who can’t prioritize his team enough to be sober on game days. Selfish. Flashy. More concerned with my Instagram image than football.

They’re wrong. Well— mostly wrong.

I adjust the strap of my duffel and nod toward the room. “What’s up?”

Silence.

A few guys pretend they didn’t hear me. Others side-eye me like I walked in here wearing a jersey from another team. Miami’s top receiver, Jamal Richardson, who goes by J-Rich, doesn’t even try to hide his reaction. He scoffs, shaking his head before going back to tying his cleats.

Great start.

Finally, Jalen Ortiz, my backup, stands and offers a handshake. “Welcome to Miami, man.” His tone is neutral, like he’s giving me a courtesy nod more than an actual welcome.

I clasp his hand. “Appreciate it.” I remember what it felt like to be someone’s backup—especially when I believed I had more talent. Now the roles are reversed, and I’m the starter. And somehow, I’ve never felt more unworthy.

From across the room, J-Rich snorts. “Man, what is this, a press conference? Ain’t no cameras here, Blythe. You don’t have to pretend like you’re happy to be here.”

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

I take a breath, keeping my tone light, easy. “I don’t pretend, man. Just trying to settle in.”

J-Rich stands up, arms stretching like he’s shaking off a hit. “Settle in, huh? You planning on actually passing the ball, or just padding your own stats?”

The tension thickens. I try to remember what my rehab counselor, Lamar, would say.

To prove my change with my actions, not my words.

I should let J-Rich’s insult slide, keep my head down, play the good teammate card.

But backing down isn’t exactly my strong suit.

I hold his gaze, tossing my duffel bag onto a bench, about to fire back when—

BAM.

My duffel knocks into someone’s oversized shaker bottle, tossing it into the locker and exploding the contents all over the room. Just in time, of course, for Coach Medina to walk in—the thick, brown protein shake splattering onto his white polo.

The room goes dead silent.

Coach Medina stops mid-step, looking down at the chocolate mess splattered across his chest.

A few of the guys choke back laughter.

J-Rich whistles low. “There we go, Blythe. Not even five minutes in and you’re doing what you do best: making a mess of things.”

Coach Medina slowly lifts his head, jaw tight. His eyes lock on me, and I swear I feel my career flash before my eyes. “Blythe,” he says, his voice is calm. The kind of calm that you force when you’re pissed. “Glad to find you’ve made yourself at home.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, sorry, Coach,” I say to his retreating back. He doesn’t acknowledge my apology, so I just grab my bag and trudge toward my locker, day one already kicking off with a bang.

Perfect.