Page 34 of Second Quarter Comeback
Camille: Good luck, and please don’t text me. Thank you and goodbye—forever.
Chapter Twenty
Killion
The Pass, the Plan, the Problem
The energy in the locker room is electric, practically crackling off the walls. Everyone’s riding the high after this win, and I can feel it vibrating through the air—through me. We’ve been undefeated so far, but we’re just halfway through theseason. Sweat and adrenaline cling to everything: the walls, the benches, the noise. Guys shout over each other, cracking jokes, slapping backs, and rehashing plays like we didn’t all just live through them.
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker, the cool metal biting through the heat still radiating off me. My fingers fumble with the laces on my cleats, my muscles protesting after four quarters of battle. It’s a good ache, though—the kind that reminds me I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
There’s nothing like this: being out there, feeling the field beneath me, the roar of the crowd vibrating in my chest. I love everything about it—the strategy, the split-second decisions, the sheer weight of being the one who has to deliver when everything’s on the line. Being the quarterback isn’t just a position. It’s the heart of the damn game.
“You better not act like you’re tired,” Tank says, dropping onto the bench beside me, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. His knees are bouncing like he’s ready for another down, like he didn’t just spend the past few hours smashing into walls of muscle disguised as linebackers.
“You got hit because you can’t stop running into people,” I shoot back, smirking. “That’s on you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving me off. “Keep talking, Crawford. We both know who keeps this team alive.”
I snort, shaking my head as I peel off my socks. Thenoise in the locker room intensifies again as the coaches make their rounds, throwing out quick praise before ducking off to their postgame meetings.
“What about that last drive, though?” someone shouts from across the room. “That throw to Darnell was fucking insane, man.”
“Darnell made the play,” I call back, keeping my tone light, even though I appreciate the compliment.
“Don’t be modest, Crawford,” Darnell says, leaning against the lockers with a towel draped over his shoulders. “You have a fucking arm that knows where to land. I was wide open because you put the ball exactly where it needed to be.”
“Team effort,” I say, nodding at him.
“That’s right,” Tank bellows, smacking the side of a locker like it’s his personal drum. “Team effort, baby.” He starts a ridiculous dance, one that somehow pulls in half the room.
I laugh, shaking my head as a chorus of off-key singing and stomping fills the space. If this football thing ever falls through, these guys have a solid backup career as the world’s least-coordinated boy band.
For a moment, I let myself soak it in. Wins like this don’t come easy. As much as the media loves to slap my face on every highlight reel, I know better. This team? They’re everything.
Still, the adrenaline is running high, and I need to cool off. I grab my towel and head for the showers, letting the noise fade behind me.
Camille.
The water pounds against my shoulders, and my mind—traitorous as always—wanders to her. To the texts we sent before the game, to the way her words tangled in my head like a goddamn spell, making it harder to focus than I’d like to admit. She shouldn’t have this kind of hold on me anymore. I shouldn’t let her.
But, fuck, I do.
I try to shake her out of my head, letting the water cascade over my skin, the roar of the pipes filling the space around me. It doesn’t help. Instead the memory of the last time I saw her—her biting words, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t worth a second thought—clings to me, burrowing deeper with every passing second.
Back at my locker, I towel off and start getting dressed, the noise of the room creeping back in. I pull my phone from my bag, scrolling through the flood of congratulatory texts. Family. Friends. Jacob. Even my brother, Luc. But nothing from Camille.
I shouldn’t care. Not now, when the team’s riding high, and tomorrow’s headlines will be all about us. About me. But I do.
I swipe to her contact, my thumb hovering over the screen. There’s a tiny, stupid part of me that wants to text her, to ask if she has ever watched, if she saw me on that field and thought,That’s the guy I used to know.
It doesn’t make sense. In fact, I’m not even surewhat I’m doing. What’s my next move here? “What’s your endgame, Crawford?” I mutter to myself, locking the phone and tossing it back into my bag.
Tank’s voice cuts through my thoughts, as loud and unrelenting as ever. “Yo, Crawford, you zoning out?”
“Nah,” I lie, shaking my head as I pull on my hoodie.
He gives me a look but doesn’t push, heading off to join the others. I lean back against my locker, staring at the ceiling like it’s holding the answers I can’t find.
