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By the time we finish, Jeff can barely lift his arms, but his routes are noticeably crisper. Tiny seeds of progress.
“Looking better,” I say, lobbing him a water bottle. He fumbles the toss, reflexes dulled by exhaustion. Still needs work. “Get some rest tonight. We’ll pick back up at 6 am tomorrow. We have until Sunday morning to get you there.”
Jeff groans but doesn’t argue. As he shuffles toward the locker room, stiff-limbed and drained, I allow myself a small measure of hope. Maybe we can pull this off.
Just then, Emma bursts through the door, balancing large paper bags. The sight of her messy topknot and oversized Thunderhawks sweatshirt momentarily drives all other thoughts from my mind.
“Hey! I picked up dinner,” she announces cheerfully. Then her eyes narrow, flitting between Jeff’s hunched form and my tense expression. “Everything okay here?”
“Yeah, all good!” Jeff calls over his shoulder. “Just a tough workout. I’ll hit the showers first, Ems.”
He disappears into the locker room before Emma can respond. She frowns after him, then turns her searching gaze on me. “That was weird. Is Jeff alright?”
I meet her eyes, a whirlpool of emotions I can’t quite name swirling in their depths. For a split second, I consider telling her everything—about the trade offer, the ultimatum for Jeff, the responsibility I now feel to save his career.
But then I think about her father, about the monumental day she’s just been through, and the words die in my throat. “Jeff’s fine,” I say finally, forcing a smile. “We’re just ramping up the training a bit. Big game on Sunday.”
Emma nods, but her eyes are still clouded with something like suspicion—or maybe it’s just the weariness of a day spent waiting on life-altering news. “Well, if you say so,” she replies, setting down the paper bags on a nearby table. “But just so you know, if something’s going on, you can tell me. We’re in this together, right?”
The sincerity in her voice almost breaks me. We’re in this together. The words echo in my head, affirming and terrifying all at once. What does “together” even mean for us at this point?
“I appreciate that, Emma,” I breathe, the weight of the secret I’m keeping settling heavy on my conscience. “And you’re right. We are in this together.”
Her eyes meet mine again, and for a moment, we’re both silent, suspended in the gravity of our unspoken thoughts. Then she smiles, a small, tired but genuine smile that lights up her face and eases some of the tension in the room.
“Good,” she says. “Now, how about we eat? I’m starving, and hospital cafeteria food is a crime against humanity.”
I chuckle at that, grateful for the shift in the mood. “You got it. Let’s eat.”
As we move toward the table, the paper bags crinkling and the scent of fried chicken filling the air, I can’t shake the sense that we’re at a turning point. In our relationship, in our lives, in everything. And as we sit down to eat, I make a silent promise to myself.
Whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone. And neither will Emma.
TWENTY-FIVE
XAVIER
It all feels like a haze as I walk into the locker room. The atmosphere is electric, thick with pregame jitters and adrenaline. Players suit up in tense silence, the gravity of the upcoming game settling heavily on their shoulders. This is the first match of the season, and for some, a defining moment in their careers.
Jeff sits hunched on the bench, staring at the floor as he slowly tightens his laces. He’s been waiting months for this chance to prove himself, but now that it’s here, his stomach churns with anxiety, I’m sure. So much is riding on today’s game. For him, it’s everything.
I sink down beside him and clasp his shoulder firmly. “You’ve got this, rookie. Just keep your head on straight and remember your training.”
He nods, his eyes betray none of his nerves, only steely determination. “I won’t let you down, Xavier,” he says.
I grin and give his shoulder a shake. “I know you won’t. Now let’s show them what you’re made of.”
The haze continues as the shrill blast of the coach’s whistle shakes us from our thoughts. It’s time. We file out onto the field, the deafening roar of the crowd washing over us. Emma is on the sideline, a brilliant spot of blonde hair in the sea of black and red jerseys. She gives a little wave when she catches my eye, and my pulse quickens. Everything clears. There’s no more haze as I realize I’ve worked for this moment my entire life.
The kickoff is flawless, sailing deep into our territory. Game on. We receive the ball and power forward, cleats churning up chunks of turf. But the opposing defense is just as aggressive. We struggle to gain ground, and the scoreboard remains ominously blank.
Ten minutes in, we finally manage a field goal to notch 3 points. A ripple of half-hearted cheers goes through the crowd. We need more than just field goals to win this.
From my receiver position, I scan the field, analyzing gaps in their defense. Jeff is light on his feet, using his agility to slip through tackles. But our drives keep stalling before we can reach the end zone. The clock ticks down relentlessly.
By halftime, we are trailing 10-3. The mood in the locker room is tense, voices muted between plays. In a quiet corner, the coach and owner converse in low tones, casting furtive glances Jeff’s way. Their meaning is clear—his time to prove himself is rapidly dwindling.
We burst back onto the field, re-energized but also desperate. I can feel the eyes of the crowd, hopeful one moment and disappointed the next as our promising drives crumble.
