Page 163 of Bitter When He Begs

The reason I can sleep without needing anything to knock me out, the reason I’ve been ten months clean, and the reason I have a shot at a real goddamn future. I know he’s watching too, and that’s the only thing that keeps me grounded.

My body aches in a way that feels holy—like every bone, every tendon, every muscle is carrying the weight of this night, and I want it. I want the pain. I want the goddamn fire. Because it’s mine. I earned this body, this rage, this power. It doesn’t belong to my father anymore.

Second quarter comes, and we’re up by ten, but I don’t ease off. I can’t. The other team’s good, quick on their feet, but they don’t have what we have. They don’t have rage turned into rhythm. They don’t have pain shaped into precision. They don’t have me with ten months of sobriety and an anchor in the crowd who looks at me like I’m worth a future.

Half-time passes in a blur. Coach is talking. Eli’s hydrating. Julian’s pacing. I keep bouncing on the balls of my feet, tossing the ball to myself, and trying to ignore the flare of soreness in my side. I took a hit in the second quarter that rattled a little too deep, but adrenaline’s masking most of it.

Julian slaps my back as we line up again, his voice cutting through the chaos. “They’re gasping, man. One more drive and we bury ’em.”

I grin, mouthguard clenched between my teeth, eyes locked on the opposing line. “Let’s dig the grave.”

We head into the third with fire under our cleats. Every play I run feels like a calculated “fuck you” to every time I was toldI’d never pull my shit together. I dodge a linebacker twice my size, scramble to the right, and launch it clean into the end zone where Julian catches it like he was born with magnets in his gloves. Touchdown. The crowd goes wild, but I don’t even smile.

I turn, chest heaving, and for a second, I let myself look—not at the crowd, not at the scoreboard, not even at my teammates who are mobbing each other with shouts and slaps on the back—but up at the section where Sage is sitting.

He’s on his feet. He’s screaming my name like it’s the only one that matters in the world. His whole face is lit up, eyes wide, hands cupped around his mouth, and he’s so fucking beautiful I almost drop to my knees right there.

He sees me. Really sees me.

Not as a quarterback.

Not as a recovery story.

Not as my father’s son.

Just as Luca.

I look away before it softens me too much.

I’ve still got work to do.

Fourth quarter, and I’m flying. Sage’s voice cuts through the noise when I least expect it—my name, sharp and proud—and I swear I hear it above everything else. I don’t let myself look for him. If I do, I’ll lose the thread. I’ve been on the edge of perfection this entire game, and I’m not letting go now.

The other team is desperate now with sloppy hits and late tackles. I feel the moment it goes too far—a defensive lineman clips my side just as I pivot. My ribs scream. Fire blooms sharp and fast beneath my pads. I grunt, hitting the turf harder than I should, but I bite down and get back up before the ref can even whistle. My ribs hurt like a bitch, but I don’t let it show. I wave off the trainer and Coach yells, but I ignore him. I’ve got two minutes left, and a twenty-point lead to shove down someone’s throat.

Final score’s a massacre. Fans are screaming. Our sideline explodes. Helmets fly, guys tackle each other in celebration, and I just stand there, chest heaving, blood roaring in my ears, my vision spotted with lights from the stadium above.

Then I look, but for the first time in my life, I don’t look for my father first.

Sage is still in the stands, gripping the railing, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world he gives a shit about. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t cheer or wave or scream. He just smiles. It’s soft and just for me.

But that’s when I fucking feel it and I stumble.

The pain in my ribs finally screams loud enough that I can’t ignore it. My vision swims and I drop to one knee, gasping as the crowd’s cheers fade to a dull roar. My breath punches out of my chest in short bursts, and I feel the world tilt just enough to make me sway.

It’s not just a bruise. My ribs are sprained, maybe cracked, and every breath stings like hell.

Coach is already in my face. “I’m fine,” I lie before he can start, though I can barely breathe. “We won.”

“Luca!” Julian drops down next to Coach, grabbing my arm. “Shit, man, are you okay?”

I nod even though I’m not sure, but I grit my teeth and force myself upright. “I’m good,” I lie again.

Eli’s at my other side, eyes wide, mouth tight. “You don’t look good.”

“Tell that to the scoreboard,” I mutter, even as I lean into them slightly. Coach gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second, but the game’s over and we’re champions.

They help me off the field, and for one terrifying second, I catch sight of my dad in the stands.

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