Page 124 of Keep Me Never
I look from the protein bar to the man who threw it.
“Tonight’s the one.” Brady grins. “The comeback kid.”
“Yes, sir,” I force myself to say, when what I’m really thinking is there should be no comeback. I shouldn’t have fallen off tohave anything to come back from, but that’s just my inner bullshit talking.
Brady means no harm, the opposite, in fact.
I go to tear open the protein bar, but it slips from my hand and I frown, closing my good first around it as I clench my jaw, my fingers working slower than they should.
Just as they have been.
Ignoring yet another sign that something is wrong, I let it fall to my lap, pretending everything is fine.
The kickoff team jogs off the field and Brady tugs his helmet over his head, his grin so damn wide, it makes me chuckle.
“See you on the flip side, my boy!” he shouts and then he’s gone.
The athletic trainer flips my palm, double-checking his tape work and, with a single nod, moves to help someone else.
I stand, pulling my helmet on, and move to stand right beside my coach, silently letting him know I’m ready.
He cuts me one side glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “We need this win.” Four words are all he speaks, but with them he is saying so much more.
That he wants me to go out there and perform. Guess he has noticed I’m not at my best.
If I do fuck up, I’m out because this win is necessary.
I give him a single curt nod and we both face forward.
He doesn’t put me in in the first quarter, the game plan revolving around a slow grind down the field. It’s near the end of the second quarter, the ball having just been turned over at the fifty, when he shoves me onto the field, but my legs are almost too numb to carry me.
I force my feet to move, jogging to meet my team in the middle, but my neck is growing stiff. It’s not pain I’m feeling, but there’s a tension there, a sharpness like I pinched a nerve.
Mason’s brows snap together under his helmet, and he comes for me, gripping my shoulder. “You good?”
I give a jerky nod.
Hesitantly, he nods back. “Lock in, man. You got this. Let’s go.”
I nod again, listening as he calls out the play.
I line up and wait.
It feels like a lifetime before the ball is snapped, and I break down the field. Snapping my hips left, I go deep, but there’s a guy at my back and front…and the hand that’s forward is covered in fucking tape, limiting my range.
Mason shifts, bulleting the ball right into another teammate’s hands.
Something knocks against my ribs, and I slow, going back to the line of scrimmage.
No big deal. It just wasn’t your ball.
It’s second down, and I take off, only Mason gets stopped in the backfield, the defense blowing through our line.
It’s fine. Not your fault.
We line up yet again, this time with a loss of four yards.
Mase calls the play—a deep route, built around my skills.
