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“You got this.” He ruffles my hair, then gives me a look, his penetrating stare trying to find something, which makes my back stiffen.

I know what this is, what he’s looking for—he’s trying to see which Hunter is at the game tonight: the one I used to be, or the one who can’t get his shit together. “Fuck off, Oak.”

He laughs, not realizing I’m serious, not realizing I seewhat he’s doing, which honestly, I would be doing too if I were him. How the fuck could anyone not be? We depend on each other, we need each other, because it’s hard to fucking win when one of your teammates is stuck in the past.

I school my features, then head to my cubby to start getting ready. I do my best to block out Oakley not trusting me and my night with Lucas, but from the first kickoff, I know everything is fucked. On our first play, the second the quarterback hands the ball off to me, there’s no question I’m screwed. I lose two yards on our first dive play, and it doesn’t get better from there.

On our third down, with twenty yards to go, I make a sweep to the right, exploding the second the ball is snapped. I’m fucking fast, quick, and able to maneuver around the defense to get into position. But this time, I can’t get open, can’t shake the motherfucking safety, so our QB can’t get me the ball, making the pass to our wide receiver, who, thank fuck manages to get a touchdown. I do not, in fact, get over a hundred yards like Oakley teased about, ending the night with only twenty-two on nine carries, but we win the game by a field goal.

I don’t talk to the media afterward, too fucking pissed to speak to anyone. Most everyone on the team steers clear of me, outside of back slaps andgood games, which I don’t deserve to hear.

I sit by myself on the bus to the private hangar where we’ll grab our chartered flight to LA. I’m in my seat on the plane when a text comes through. I expect it to be Coach Blake, Mom, or Desmond checking on me, so I nearly drop my phone when I see it’s Lucas. We’ve always had each other’s numbers, as a just-in-case thing, but never once messaged.

Lucas: I got a new pen that can write underwater.

Um…what the fuck is he talking about?

Me: Okay…

Lucas: Don’t worry. It can write other words too.

Well, that’s weird, but I do smile slightly. I’ve never had Lucas tell me a stupid joke before. It makes me wonder…

Me: Are you high?

Lucas: I wish.

They make the announcement that we’re preparing for takeoff and to put our phones on Airplane Mode. I do without responding to Lucas. What the fuck would I say anyway? I have no idea why he texted me that, no idea why he texted me at all.

I try to block it out, try to find somewhere else to hide another thought, but my brain is getting too crowded. It won’t be long before things start spilling free.

I don’t turn Airplane Mode off even when we land in LA or as I’m driving home. It’s fucking late anyway, and I’m sure Lucas didn’t say anything else and is fast asleep by now.

My phone taunts me from my nightstand, though, keeping me from sleep. I can’t stop myself from grabbing it and pressing on the screen until the messages start coming through.

Mom—the person I feel the worst about ignoring. She’s great, always has been, and we’ll always be close, but I don’t want to talk about the game tonight, not even with her.

Coach Blake.

Desmond.

Just like I thought, but there’s one more.

Lucas.

I took a beautiful photo of a sunset tonight.

He…took a photo of a sunset…? Why is he telling me this? Anyone else would have mentioned the game. I know that’s why everyone else messaged and what they’d say. Coach Blake would make me feel guilty about fucking up. Des’swhat the fuck’s up, man?would feel less guilt-inducing, but notmuch better. And Mom’s sadness and worry would send my thoughts into a tailspin.

If Ellis were here, that’s what he’d want to talk about too. He would already have a plan to put into action, a new training routine or something else to help me get where I want to be.

But that’s not what Lucas messaged about.

I’m swept up in a whirlwind of guilt as soon as I have the thought. Why am I comparing what Ellis would have done to what Lucas is doing? The two have nothing to do with each other. Ellis knew me, knew what I needed because he understood how much I love football, and he felt the same. What would he think if he knew football is the last thing I want to talk about right now? That the thought makes me feel like crawling out of my skin because every time I fuck up on the football field, it feels like I’m somehow betraying him.

I’ll take anything that can distract me from that, which I tell myself is why I text Lucas.

Me: Can I see it?