Page 32 of Game On
“No, we don’t,” Ella rushes to say, but I gently grasp her wrist, my gaze holding hers, silently asking her to stay a moment longer.
Gabi grins, unaffected by the tension. “Scream if you need me,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads inside, leaving us standing awkwardly by the door.
Ella folds her arms across her chest, her stance defensive but her expression open, curious. “What is it?”
“For the record,” I say in a low voice, “my asking about Jamie earlier wasn’t an attempt to take a shot at you. How many partners you’ve had in the past doesn’t affect me. And I definitely didn’t peg you for inexperienced, not in the slightest.”
She responds with a simple “Oh,” the word hanging awkwardly in the air.
I give her a slow, thoughtful smile. “Goodnight, Ella. See you around.”
Then I turn and head back to my truck. I pause at the driver’s side door, casting a last glance her way to ensure sheenters safely. Even from a distance, she still looks perplexed. It’s only when she finally steps inside, the door closing with a soft click behind her, that I allow myself to drive away.
The Whitland football lockers are state of the art, a renovation that cost the university a cool six million dollars and a year of construction chaos. Despite being part of this lavish upgrade, it still smells like sweat and cheap cologne—a scent poorly masked by Pine-Sol Lemon.
I walk past rows of lockers painted in our team colors—black, white, and silver—until I reach my own, number seven. It’s shiny and new, my helmet in a little box on the top, a reclining leather seat in the middle. I unlock the box to find our motto plastered across the top in silver capital letters: BEAR DOWN.
“Fox!” Levi’s voice breaks through the hum around me. He flashes me a grin, leaning against my locker. “Thought you might need a little pre-game hype.”
“I’m plenty hyped.”
“Yeah, first game of the year.”
“Pre-season. And Alabama Southern isn’t exactly …”
His grin widens. “Hudson Fox, is that your ego I’m smelling?”
“Hey, I’m just being pragmatic,” I retort, pulling on my pads. “They’ve had a rough past season.”
“Ours wasn’t much better.”
I roll my eyes, not bothering to contradict him. Last season was a minor disaster, no doubt about it. But Alabama Southern? They didn’t even qualify for the playoffs.
“Yeah, well,” I say, lacing up my cleats. “Let’s just make sure we don’t repeat it.”
“As long as I get some good footage this season, I’m set.”
He chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder before heading to his own locker. I cast a quick glance at the clock hanging near the entrance. There’s still an hour and a half until kickoff. We don’t need to be on the field for warm-ups for another solid thirty minutes. That’s just enough time for me to complete my pre-game ritual.
From my bag, I fish out my lucky socks—worn down to the last few threads on the heel—and slip them on. Then comes a pair of headphones, the wires tangling together in a mess of knots. After a moment of fruitless untangling, I give up and shove one bud into my right ear, the left one dangling loosely over my chest.
After I open my locker door, I press Play on the first song of my pre-game mix. “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. Inside, a piece of wood with rough, carved letters—saved from the old oak lockers before the renovation—serves as a reminder of past seasons. Each letter represents an affirmation, a practice I started my freshman year to handle the competitive pressure.
Now, it’s become as crucial to my performance as physical training.
I trace my fingers over the engraving that spells out my old last name. My given name, the one I was saddled with when I was born. My dad, Anthony Shaw, was a notorious tight end for the Carolina Rattlers. A family man with big dreams for himself. But after my brother was born, a recurring kneeinjury ended his NFL career. It was earlier than he wanted or had prepared for.
After that, things quickly deteriorated in our family. He became an angry, resentful version of his old self. Spent all our money on gambling and bars. There were drunken fights with my mom, shouting matches that turned into slammed doors and extended hotel stays. Until eventually, he left us for good.
Even though I was still young, I was well aware of what was going on. It didn’t take long for me to legally change my surname to my mother’s maiden name, Fox. I refused to wear the asshole’s name across my back. The deadbeat who left his family with nothing. The sore loser who abandoned us.
And I’ve never seen or spoken to him again. Not that I want to. That chapter of my life is closed. Shaw was a name that used to mean something. A legacy now stripped of its glory.
Here, in this locker, it’s a part of my history I can’t erase, don’t want to erase; it reminds me of the adversity I’ve faced and overcome.Strive,Hope,Achieve, andWin, because second place was never good enough for the men in the Shaw family.
But there’s an inescapable weight to it, too. A constant reminder of what happens when you lose control, when you let the world get too close, and how easily it can all slip through your fingers.
My father’s the reason I never wanted to go pro, never wanted the limelight that he so desperately craved. Not because he failed, but because he let his failures consume him. Maybe that’s why I keep my guard up so high, whyI feel this constant need to control everything around me—so I don’t end up like him. So no one can hurt me, or worse, so I don’t hurt someone else. I refuse to put everything into an industry where your worth is measured only by your victories.
