Page 67 of Time Out

Shit.

“Hey.” A slap hit me from behind, making me stumble toward my locker.

“What?” Sam Denmark, our backup quarterback and all-around All-American guy, shoved his brows together.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Everything was perfect. Or had the potential to be. Or turn to an irrevocable pile of shit I couldn’t fix. What could be wrong?

“You ready for this?”

“Are you?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I stand on the sidelines and cheer, ready to play but knowing I probably won’t. Are you kidding me? I’m living the life right now.”

As long as Cole was healthy, Sam would always be on the sidelines. Everyone knew it. But there was always the chance. A wicked tackle. A messed up hit during the pass that tore out Cole’s elbow. Broken thumb. Even a sprained ankle that could take him a game or two. Anything could happen at any time. Assuming best case scenario though, Sam was right.

He’d be able to cheer us on with little to no pressure.

Me?

My first year and I’d already broken not only three team records but currently held the rookie all-around yards and touchdowns made. And we were a passive offense. Still, eyes were on me. Critics were picking up. Comparing me to the greats.

I shook it off and focused on Sam. On Dawson, who tossed his phone into his locker and flinched from the sound it made as the screen shattered.

Damn.

“I’m good.” I was. I would be.

Might need to throw up, but I tried to inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth, and take Cole’s advice before our first game.

Play like it’s high school when you’re playing for glory and fun and not the paycheck or the sixty-plus thousand people who would be in the stadium. Watching me. Waiting. Hoping I scored or praying I fucked up.

“Shit,” I muttered, as bile rose in my throat.

I took off toward the bathroom, shoving lineman and defensive ends out of my way like I wasn’t half their size or weight, and managed to hit the toilet right as my nerves appeared.

“Fuck,” I grunted, puking my brains and my courage, and probably all my football knowledge out into the toilet.

“Dude!” Cole. He pounded on my door. I’d seen him earlier. He was cool. Calm. Collected. “What the hell?”

The prince of Nashville who wore our team’s uniform like he’d been born in it even if life hadn’t gone his way a time or twelve.

“I’m good.”

“You’re screwed in the head and you’re not thinking of the game.”

I coughed, made sure everything I was terrified about was already expelled, and flushed the toilet. What twenty-three-year-old man puked before a game?

“My head’s in it, I promise.”

I flipped the latch and shoved open the stall door. Cole followed me to the sinks while I splashed water on my face and washed my hands. Cupped them with water so I could rinse out the vile taste of my nerves.

“Hey. Talk to me.” His hand landed on my shoulder and even though we were both padded, his touch was a comfort. An anchor.

I glanced at him in the mirror and his concern was obvious. Not as quarterback. Not as captain. But as a friend. The guy who let me stay with him and his son, Jasper, for weeks before I could move into my penthouse. The small-town guy who’d done everything right after a really shitty and difficult past.

The guy who cared.

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