Page 2 of Fumbling Forward
Time slows again. My breath catches. The roar of the stadium dies down into a hush, broken only by the wind whipping through the stadium lights. My knees threaten to buckle. Tank is frozen behind me. Derek looks like he’s holding his breath. Marcus—Marcus is sprinting toward the end zone, eyes locked on something I can’t see from here.
I swallow hard. My throat is dry. My lips barely move. “Please… just… please…”
The whistle blows.
And then everything blurs.
The crowd erupts. Shouts, cheers, screams—but I can’t make sense of any of it. My knees finally give, and I slump to the turf, heart hammering so hard I think it might burst. My arms shake.My hands grip the grass like it’s the only thing holding me to this world.
I hear Tank behind me shouting, “You did it! Youfucking did it!”
Derek is jumping, high-fiving anyone in reach, Marcus is running toward the end zone. I catch a glimpse of him catching a lateral, dodging a defender… my brain can’t compute it all.
The referee’s whistle shrieks again. The stadium shakes. My teammates are yelling, hugging, celebrating—but everything is in slow motion for me.
And then… the ball wobbles again in my mind.
I can’t tell if it crossed the line perfectly or not.
I can’t tell if we won… or if I fumbled the moment that mattered most.
I’m lying there, chest heaving, grass stained with sweat, mud, and adrenaline, and I realize… I don’t know what happens next.
Not yet.
All I know is that everything changes in the next heartbeat.
Chapter Two
Carter
The ice bites my shoulder and seeps into every fiber of my arm. The tub is half-full of water that might be closer to hot than cold, but it doesn’t matter. Muscles ache, joints scream, and every movement feels like it takes twice the effort it used to. Victory tastes sweet, but it doesn’t erase the body pounding from a game that should’ve been easier on a thirty-seven-year-old quarterback.
The locker room buzzes around me. Teammates yell, slap backs, laugh, some still hyped from the field while others limp toward showers. Derek “Thunder” Johnson is sprawled on the bench, stretching, mumbling about the pizza he’s going to demolish. Marcus “Maverick” Williams is trying to talk Tank into a wager on who can drink the most chocolate milk before lights out.
I settle back into the bath, letting the cold numb me just enough. Shoulder wrapped in an ice pack. Neck stiff. Quads sore. Every ache reminds me I’m not twenty-five anymore. Not even thirty. This is probably my last year. The thought hits harder than any tackle, the end of a career that’s defined me longer than anything else ever has.
Coach Fitzgerald claps a hand on my shoulder. “Good work tonight, Storm. Couldn’t ask for more.”
“Thanks, Coach.” Simple words.
He nods and moves on, checking on other players.
The team owner, Mark Davidson, leans against the locker room wall. “Still got it, Carter. Don’t let this year end like a fluke.”
“Not planning to,” I mutter, though the ache in my knees says otherwise.
The locker room hum fades a bit as I close my eyes. Satisfaction is there, yes. Winning feels good. But the body betrays me. Every movement reminds me I’ve pushed too hard, too long. A quiet sadness sneaks in behind the adrenaline. Games, wins, plays—they’re all finite. Every season closer to the last.
“Storm, you coming out tonight?” Derek’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
I open one eye. “Out where?”
“A club. Celebrate the win. You know… unwind a little.”
My first instinct is to say no. Ice, aches, the thought of people screaming at me, flashing lights, loud music—it all feels wrong. But there’s something about the way Derek grins, that dare in his eyes… maybe a night out on the town is what I need.
“Fine,” I say, against better judgment. “I’ll come.”
