Page 11 of Hard Pass

“Excuse me?” Coach says.

“Ball was high.” I shrug like it’s an obvious observation he missed. “I should’ve put it on his numbers, not beyond his vertical.”

That’s not how it happened. We all know it. Marshall knows it. Coach definitely knows it.

There’s a pause where no one says anything, and the locker room falls into a hush.

Coach studies me, weighing whether to push or let me be the leader and therefore take it on my shoulders. He exhales and nods.

“Fix whatever the problem is,” he mutters. “Because that was shit out there today. Goddamn fucking shit.”

When he walks off, I half expect him to pick up a towel or water bottle and throw it, but he doesn’t. The minute he clears the doorway, the tension in the room breaks instantly.

Marshall just stares at me like I handed him something and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

I shrug. “Quarterbacks take the heat. That’s part of the job.”

He opens his mouth to argue but then closes it, taking the win I just gave him.

“We do it all over again next week,” I say. “Let’s focus on that because we’re going to need you at the top of your game.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Good.” I clap him once on the shoulder and head back into the locker room, knowing that if anyone needs to be at the top of their game, it’s me.

My phone is still buzzing when I sit back down in front of my stall. Ignoring it, I lean forward, bracing my forearms on my thighs and stare at the floor between my feet.

To my teammates? I’m fine. It was a bad game. It happens. I’ll shake it off just like they will and I’ll move on.

That’s what everyone sees. Or rather, that’s what I’ll let them see.

What they don’t see is the game running loops through my mind. Every play. Every throw. The timing. The way the ball felt leaving my hand.

All of it off.

All of it wrong.

All of it open to the harsh criticism I’ve received my whole career.

I flex my fingers again and there it is—the tiniest tremor. Funny how that tiny tremble can cause an earthquake elsewhere.

I close my hand into a fist to stop it before anyone notices, because this is all in my head. It’s the yips.

That’s the only explanation.

But the incessant vibrating of my phone says otherwise. I grab my phone and glance at the screen.

Thirteen missed calls and thirty-six texts from him alone. My thumb hovers for a second, but then I toss it back onto the shelf.

Not now. Not tonight.

It’s the yips.

That’s all it is.

I’ll address it, fix it, and lead this team to victory.

That’s my job.