Page 22 of Playing It Forward

I shove the crackers out of my way so I can reach my locker and get ready. Five minutes later, I’m jogging onto the field with the rest of the offensive team.

Within minutes I’ve forgotten about Tanner’s stupid prank. This isn’t the time for jokes. If we want to win the Super Bowl – and I plan to win this season – we need to focus.

We line up and move across the field for our dynamic warm-up. While the other players are doing high knees, butt kicks, and lunges, I do shoulder rotations and stretch my arm when nobody’s looking.

We move on to our position-specific warm-up. Tanner, Gage, and Corbin run routes.

I focus on short tosses before increasing the distance. Five and ten-yard tosses – hell, even twenty-yards – are fine. But once I start on the deep sideline throws, my shoulder pain worsens. The joint feels tight. And angry like some asshole shoved broken glass beneath the skin.

I ignore it. Knox wants to run some plays and I’m not letting him down.

By the time Knox blows his whistle to indicate warm-up is over, I’m ready for a break. But I don’t stop. I won’t.

“Line up!” I bark.

The offensive line resets. Tanner jogs back into position while Gage mutters something under his breath about quarterbacks with death wishes.

Sweat drips down my spine beneath the summer heat. My shoulder throbs hard enough to make my fingers tingle, but I roll it once and ignore it.

I take the snap. Corbin cuts across the middle. Tanner streaks deep. I plant my feet and launch the pass. Pain slices through my shoulder.

The ball sails high. Too high. Tanner leaps but the ball glances off his fingertips.

“Damnit,” I growl.

Coach Knox blows the whistle. “Reset!”

The players shuffle back into formation. I can feel Knox watching from the sideline with narrowed eyes. I avoid looking his way.

I can practically hear Terri’s voice in my head. You don’t care about anyone else but yourself.

Bullshit. Everything I do is for other people. The team. The franchise. The guys counting on me. The career I’ve sacrificed everything for.

And yet somehow one angry woman with chestnut hair has me questioning myself every damn five minutes.

“Focus, Allen,” Coach Wilson snaps.

Great. Between the offensive line coach and the quarterback coach, every movement I make is under a microscope.

“I am focused.”

“Then explain why your last three throws looked like they were launched by a blind pirate.”

Snickers ripple through the offense. I ignore them and clap my hands. “Again.”

The next rep goes worse. My timing is late. My feet are sloppy. My throw is weak.

Brock turns toward me with a frown. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. Pain burns deep beneath the joint now. There’s no way I’m sleeping tonight.

Knox blows the whistle. “You’re done.”

Silence crashes over the field. I straighten slowly. “What?”

“You’re done for today,” he repeats.

Every eye on the field swings toward me. Quarterbacks do not get benched during practice. Not veteran franchise quarterbacks.