I barely see Seb throughout all of this.
Quarterbacks are treated like raw diamonds here—separate schedules, separate rooms, and constant media attention; everything for the future faces of the franchise.
When we do cross paths—in the hallways, at mealtime, or late at night—he looks almost too composed, like he’s barely holding himself together through sheer force of will.
By the time the athletic testing day rolls around, I finally have an answer to my questions.
I’m done. Whatever comes after this—I’m done.
My position group goes last, which means I miss Evander’s and Felix’s performances but arrive just in time for the quarterbacks. They’ve taken the attention in a swoop, the entire stadium holding one collective breath. Media representatives crowd the sidelines, spectators lean forward in their seats, and cameras and scouts are focused on the players as they warm up for the exercises.
My eyes scan the seats for Linden, Kelly, and Brandon. I find them in the first row, Linden between his parents, his head bowed deeply over a book, its spine roughly cracked in the middle, so the juicy cover is invisible to the public eye. Even from the field, I can make out his focus, his lips moving silently as he absorbs the story, his brows furrowed. I already know what he’s reading—the final installment of Noah and Owen’s story was released yesterday. I can’t help but grin, raising a hand whenKelly spots me and starts waving. She elbows Linden, who looks up, confused for a moment, until his gray eyes find me across the field. He doesn’t wave, but his lips send a quiet message:good luck. He quickly glances left and right before mouthing a hasty‘I love you’. My heart jumps straight into my throat, and for one small moment, I’m tempted to walk over to him and abandon this day.
I’m still distracted by that exact thought when Seb steps up to the line, his back ramrod straight, hands flexing at his sides, probably fighting the urge to scratch. He’s stressed as hell, and I can feel it radiating all the way over to us. I’m not worried, though. I’ve seen Seb run thousands of these drills, all clean, all with beautiful times.
His eyes are focused on the ground as he gets into position, fussing for a moment, his fingers positioning and repositioning on the line. He rises into the running stance, weight leaning forward, his left hand coming up to his side, and then he fires off, takes five, six big strides, and I can already feel this is going to be a personal best, when suddenly his foot catches or slips—I don’t even know, it’s happening much too fast to tell in that moment—and he stumbles, one knee going down to the turf. He catches himself fast, pressing up from the grass with one hand almost immediately, and finishes the dash, but the damage is already done, a personal best turned into a disastrous time. The whole stadium sucks in a single, horrified breath, all eyes on my best friend, the legacy quarterback, who carries a ton of expectations and just buckled under the weight in front of all of us.
Seb straightens slowly, his eyes fixated on a spot of grass right in front of him. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t check for the reaction of the media or scouts. Instead, he shakes out his hands, a deliberately loose gesture, and walks off the field, already shaking his head when the trainers swarm him with questions about pain levels. He’s taking some time to recuperate beforehis second try—because there’s no doubt he’ll take the second try—his fingers shaking when he accepts a bottle of water. He looks fine on the outside, but I can see the shock sitting between his shoulder blades and in the tense line of his jaw. If he was stressed before, he’s definitely freaking out now.
My first instinct is to jog over to him and bump our foreheads together, the way I’d do right before a game, but when I make the first step, a staff member grabs my shoulder, politely but decisively maneuvering me backward.
“Please wait with your group,” he says, probably assuming I’m eager to get into the action myself. I’m about to argue when the energy in the stadium shifts hard. Cameras swivel around, pointing at the stands rather than the athletes, heads turning, fingers pointing, phones shooting up.
I crane my neck in an attempt to spot the distraction. At the top of the steps, Leo Davenport emerges in loose sweats and an LA Lions hoodie, blond hair pulled into a messy manbun, and overall giving the appearance of having rolled out of bed five seconds ago. He smiles easily at the cameras, waves, then finds another man in the stands and makes his way over. They greet each other like old friends, and it takes me an additional second to recognize Coach Wagner. He’s wearing a plain ball cap pulled low onto his forehead, but the moment Leo greets him, his face opens in a way I haven’t seen before. They both settle into an easy conversation, Leo’s arm resting comfortably on Wagner’s shoulder.
Roman Hearst arrives separately, dressed sharply in a dark coat, with a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose and his earbuds in. He doesn’t wave at the cameras, and he doesn’t look at Wagner. Instead, he makes his way down to the railing, picking a seat firmly apart from everyone else. He searches for Seb, and that’s all he looks at: his brother on the sideline, onehand holding the water bottle, the other flexing, performing to be calm and collected.
I watch Seb’s eyes as they find me first, then Leo, then Roman. For a second, he just stares, then something shifts in his shoulders, causing them to sag maybe half an inch.
Every available camera in the stadium is still firmly fixated on the two NFL veteran players, and for about half a minute, Sebastian Davenport’s fall becomes only the second most interesting thing around.
Which is, I quietly suspect, the entire point of this entrance.
Seb breathes in deeply, then steps back to the line, head held up high.
I lean forward as he takes his stance again, muttering quietly, “C’mon, Seb.”
The timer starts.
Seb runs a 4.38.
An immediate hunger replaces the earlier horror; the scouts and trainers getting exactly what they’ve been waiting for. Everyone is typing away on a tablet or on the phone, while the cameras track Seb as he slows down, puts his hands on his knees, and breathes heavily. It looks like exhaustion, but I know him well enough to spot the relief. This must be the first real breath he’s taken in days. He moves easily through the rest of it—the vertical jump, the broad jump, the shuttle—producing numbers that every sports network will discuss up and down until the draft.
We find each other for five seconds when the quarterbacks move off the field, and my group moves in, his knuckles bumping against mine in passing.
“How do you feel?” I ask, and he snorts.
“Like I want to sleep for a whole week and then have ten seconds without anyone asking me a single question,” he says, half of it coming over his shoulder as we’re both already being ushered in different directions.
“Yeah,” I call after him. “Same.”
I run clean, 4.52 on my first attempt and 4.47 on the second, which draws a low murmur from the scouts along the sideline, but nothing compared to what Seb got. My jump earns me a few appreciative nods before I move on to the three-cone. I’ve prepared for this my whole life, my body going through the motions on autopilot, but my mind has already wandered off the field.
As soon as it’s over, I grab my jacket and head over to find my people in the stands.
Linden still has the book open on his knees.
Kelly, once again, spots me first, rising halfway out of her seat to greet me.
