Page 123 of Through the Flames
The turf stretched ahead like a battlefield with scouts ringing the edges, carrying clipboards and poker faces, eyes hawking every move.
It didn’t matter. Pressure fueled me, and my reason to succeed was sittingright there, watching my every move.
The first whistle blew, and I dropped into position for the forty.Breathe in. Head down.Everything in me coiled tight, ready to spring.
Then … release.
The world tunneled and there was nothing but the white lines flying under me, the finish line pulling closer. Every stride slammed into the turf like a war drum.
I hit the mark and stopped the clock at 4.4. Not bad, but I could’ve been faster.
There were murmurs behind me.
“Quick for his size.”
“Explosive off the line.”
I could live with that.
Vertical jump was next. The mat burned under my shoes as I bent my knees and launched. My fingertips smacked the tabs high above my head, achieving a number high enough to raise a few eyebrows.
Then came the broad jump. One more chance to show what power looked like in human form. I flew, landed light, knees bent, controlled, and clean.
Then the bench, and my lips almost tipped into a feral smirk. I wasn’t worried about this part.
The bar sat above me like it thought it could win.
My hands wrapped around cold steel, knuckles whitening.
Breathe in — press.
Over and over. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five reps blurred together.
My pecs and shoulders were burning, and my arms shook under the strain. I kept going until the world narrowed to pain and weight. The clang when I dropped the bar echoed down the row.
Someone muttered, “Thirty. Jesus Christ.”
The cone drills flew by in a blur of whistles and barked orders. Feet slicing, hips pivoting, every cut sharp as fuck. Position work followed — pads popping, bodies colliding. They told me to ease up on the bags.
Yeah, right. They weren’t here for soft; they wanted violence with precision, and I fucking gave it to them.
And through all of it, the thought of my girl was what kept me anchored.
Ella was sitting cross-legged in the front row of the stands in my hoodie, wearing it like a silent claim to appease the beast inside of me. Dark-red hair caught the light, and her calm smile cut through the chaos like a lighthouse.
The second I caught sight of her, everything else blurred out. Cameras, coaches, the noise — they melted into the background. My chest locked on the image, and suddenly every drill felt easier.Lighter.
Like I could bench the planet because my girl was watching.
When it was over, players collapsed on benches, sucking air like they’d been drowning. But I was wired, vibrating with energy. Coaches waved me over as cameras swarmed, the questions coming in fast as bullets.
“How do you feel out there?”
“What’s next for Hunter Rhodes?”
I gave them curt answers, the bare minimum of politeness I had left, before muscling past the circus and cutting straight for the stands.
Ella was laughing at something on her phone when I caged her in against the railing, dripping sweat, breath ragged.
