Page 26 of Play Maker

We’ve played them, and he makes remarks under his breath. I know Coach D has spoken to him—he assured me that the secret is buried. Still, that’s a part of my past that I don’t want to revisit.

If they pull out a win tonight, we’re gonna square up again, right here on my turf.

Perfect. Give me something I can hit.

The lights flicker across the whiteboard, but nobody’s really paying attention to the film yet. Everyone’s locked in on Coach Trucker at the front, arms crossed, face carved out of stone, voice low but slicing through the room like a blade.

“We’re gonna be thin on the line this week.” His jaw ticks. “Boone’s been the anchor for three seasons.” Coach’s eyes cut straight to me. “And that means you, Grimes. You’re filling that space.”

I nod.

Coach keeps talking—scheme adjustments, protection shifts, extra reps for the rookies to cover gaps—but the blood’s already pounding too loud in my ears.

Step up.

Be better.Be stronger.Be enough.Same song. Different verse.

I’m supposed to be the one holding the damn line.

Good.

I do my best work when the walls are already burning.

The projector flickers, showing old Outriders tape, but I barely watch. My body’s wired too tight, my muscles too hot under my skin, my mind already spinning.

I’m not scared. I’m not worried. I’m pissed. I’m ready.

They want a war? Good. I’m at my best when there’s nothing left to lose.

* * *

The first time I drove into Blue Valley, I barely looked around.

New contract, new number, new expectations, and a point to prove, I was so focused on not fucking it up that I didn’t see the town at all. Now I see too much.

I take Main Street slow. It’s a two-lane road, and you never know when tractors will be taking up both of them.

I pass by Sugar Rush. That’s what it’s called. Sydney owns it. Married to Boone now.

Boone scares defensive men on Sundays and walks around here like some kind of folk hero in flannel, dad sneakers, and his daughter in his arm or in a backpack for kids. He’s good people. Doesn’t ask questions I don’t want to answer.

Across the road is the same firehouse that served the town, that outgrows it from October to … well, whenever the season ends. The firehouse may have moved, but that old building now houses a security force with more training than anyone knows.

Everything here feels like it remembers you, even if you’ve never stepped inside. And I hate that it feels a lot like home should when I could get traded in a snap.

There’s a bookstore tucked just off the corner—shuttered windows, dust on the glass. But a light’s on in the back. I spot Lauren’s cousin Izzy in there on occasion. I’m not sure what that’s about, but I won’t ask either.

I nod back to a couple of guys in camo vests and ball caps leaning against a pickup, sipping from mismatched to-go mugs like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. And that’s it. That’s the whole exchange. A language made of looks and silence. Familiar.

I hit the end of Main and hang a right, up past the quarry road, where the pavement evens out and the trees get taller toward The Stables.

As I get closer, I see construction vehicles, and closer yet, I realize they’re putting up fencing.

A man stops me as I turn in, and I roll down the window.

“This thing is going up pretty quickly. I know you all, but some of the guys coming in may not. Might get asked for ID.”

“Appreciate the heads-up,” I say, and he steps back and waves me through.

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