Page 159 of Red Zone
Row after row of lockers. Jerseys hanging, some neatly, some already half-off their hooks.
Helmets lined up on shelves, like soldiers waiting for orders. The faint smell of turf, sweat, and leather clings to the air.
It’s stupid, but it almost feels…holy.
I walk down the center aisle, my fingers trailing the edge of the bench.
This could be it.
I’ve been trying not to think about it all week, but now—here, standing in the place I’ve spent the better part of four years—there’s no ignoring it.
What if tonight is the last time I ever lace up for a real game?
What if I don’t get the call?
What if every scout who ever came to watch me decided I wasn’t good enough?
What if all this—everything I’ve worked for—is over after tonight?
The thought hits harder than I expected.
I stop in front of my locker and just stare at my nameplate for a long minute.
Hayes.
I press my thumb to the letters like I’m trying to memorize the feeling.
This has been my whole life. My escape. My purpose. The only place I ever felt like I actually belonged.
I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head hard.
Stop it, man. You’ve got a game to play. You can spiral later.
I drag my palms over my face, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my focus back to what matters.
Back to tonight. Back to right now.
One play at a time.
I’m pulling my jersey out of my bag when a voice cuts through the silence.
“You’re here early.”
I turn and find Coach Harding standing in the doorway, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
He walks in, hands in his pockets, and glances around the room before settling his eyes on me.
“Nerves?” he asks.
I give a weak laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Something like that.”
He stops a few feet away and studies me for a second, like he always does when he’s about to say something that’ll stick.
“You know,” he starts. “There’s a lot of guys who come through programs like this thinking talent is all it takes. Theyget here, coasting on what God gave them, and they flame out fast when things get hard.”
He gestures toward me with a little nod.
“That’s not you.”
