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“Again. Sullivan, stay on the angle and make him choose.”

He nods once, whatever argument he might have made disappearing now that we have another chance to test it. Archer takes his place in the backfield while the defense recognizes the formation and starts shouting adjustments across the line. I step in behind Whit and scan the secondary. The linebacker walks down exactly like he did on the last rep, except this time, the safety creeps two yards closer to the box. They know what we’re doing, which means this rep will tell me whether the adjustment works or if I saw something that wasn’t there.

Archer crosses in front of me as the ball hits my hands, selling the fake hard enough that the linebacker commits downhill. King pushes forward before cutting outside, taking the corner with him as Sullivan drives into the space between the linebacker and safety without abandoning the angle this time. The linebacker has to turn his hips to stay with him, and I let the ball go.

It meets Sullivan’s hands without interrupting his stride, and he turns upfield untouched before the whistle ends the rep.

“There we fucking go.” He spikes the ball and turns toward me with a grin.

I shove his hand away when he smacks the side of my helmet and wait for the familiar need to call everyone back and run it again. One clean rep has never been enough when another could tell me whether the first was luck, and another after that could make sure nobody forgets exactly how it’s supposed to feel. Except this time, the urge never comes. Sullivan trusted what I saw enough to change what he was doing, the defense changed the look, and we still found the opening.

“Next group!”

The second offense runs onto the field, and I jog toward the sideline with the rest of the starters, pulling my helmet off before I reach the water coolers. I take a bottle from one of the trainers and squeeze half of it into my mouth, still watching the defense reset for JJ.

Coach Quinn approaches while I’m still wiping water from my face. “Duvall. What’d you change?”

“The LB was baiting Sullivan into flattening because he knew he had help behind him. I had Sullivan stay on the angle long enough to force him to make a decision.”

“And if the backer sits?”

“I hit him before the safety could get there.”

“Good.” Coach nods once, his focus on the field following the second unit as they line up over the ball.

He doesn’t turn the adjustment into a reminder to everyone standing nearby of how many years I’ve been doing this. He asked what I saw because he wanted to know, and once he has the answer, he moves on. I roll the cold bottle between my palms as Coach crosses toward the next position group without waiting for the test that never comes.

King drops onto the bench beside me, following my attention toward the second unit. JJ is behind the line now, clapping once before taking the snap and dropping back. The pocket collapses almost immediately when the interior fails to pick up a stunt, forcing JJ to dump the ball underneath before the whistle blows.

Whit swears beside me, both of us moving before anyone calls us over. He reaches the lineman first and starts walking him through the exchange while I catch JJ as he comes toward the sideline.

“Did you see where it came from?”

“Too late.”

“Watch the tackle when the end widens. The second he follows him inside, you know someone else is coming.”

JJ glances back toward the defense, replaying the look in his head before he nods. “Got it.”

There’s no defensiveness in his response. I’ve been here less than a week and technically have no business telling him how to run an offense he knew before I arrived. But JJ turns back toward the field while Whit finishes with the lineman. They run the play again, and this time the snap holds. JJ gets time to step into the throw, and the ball hits the receiver in stride.

I watch him reset for the next rep without the satisfaction that usually comes from being right because there was nothing to win here. I saw something that could help, so I gave it to him, and JJ used it without either of us making the exchange about who would be standing behind the line on game day.

The whistle sends the starters back onto the field, and I pull my helmet on as Archer falls into step beside me, already complaining that he hasn’t touched the ball enough. By the time the huddle closes around us, I know King wants the ball a fraction earlier when he breaks toward the sideline because he trusts his feet to do more with the extra space than he trusts me to protect him from the hit. Sullivan will fight through contact before surrendering leverage, but show him open grass and he’ll take it. Archer gets impatient when he goes too many reps without touching the ball, and Whit can tell from the way I settle behind the line when I’m about to change something before I ever open my mouth.

A week ago, they were names beside positions in a playbook I was trying to memorize quickly enough that nobody would regret bringing me here. Now I know what they’re going to do before half of them do.

The next stretch of practice isn’t clean. King and I read an option route differently, and I send the ball sailing through the space he vacated. Archer turns in the wrong direction on a check and nearly collides with me. I change the protection too late and leave Whit swearing while the defense celebrates a pressure they absolutely would’ve turned into a sack if we were taking anyone to the ground today.

The first mistake still gets to me, but by the third, we fix it and move on. King tells me what he saw from the corner, and instead of deciding one of us has to be wrong, we figure out what we want against that look next time. Archer asks what I expected on the check and gets it right on the next rep, and when I apologize to Whit for changing the protection late, he tells me to make the damn call sooner before walking back to the huddle without giving it another thought. Nobody carries a mistake into the next play long enough for me to keep carrying it either.

My practice jersey is soaked with sweat by the time Coach calls for the last rotation, but the pressure that usually builds alongside fatigue never arrives. There’s no invisible tally running in the back of my head separating everything I got right from the things I need to stay late and fix before anyone can notice.

We finish the last few reps the same way we handled the rest of practice. King and I connect on the route we missed earlier. Archer picks up a blitz without needing me to point it out. When Sullivan drifts too far inside, I tell him, and he fixes it before the next snap. None of it is perfect, but for once, perfect doesn’t feel like the price of being allowed to leave the field. When the whistle sounds, ending practice, I pull off my helmet as the huddle breaks around me. Whit bumps my shoulder on his way past, and I smile as I start toward the sideline.

“Duvall.”

I turn toward Coach Quinn near the edge of the field, and he gestures me over before turning back to the woman standing beside him. Calliope has one hand over her eyes, blocking the sun, as she says something to her father that makes his mouth pull into a frown. Her braids are piled on top of her head, a few loose curls escaping around her face, her circular-framed glasses perched on her nose. I remember those fucking glasses.