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Easton laughs, but I barely hear him because my hand is still spread across next month. Whit didn’t mention Dad or tell me how useful I could be around here. He held out another problem, and I took it without needing another reason to stay. I look down at the rows of dates, surprised by how much I like that they expect me to be here.

“Sure, Pea,” Easton says in a mocking tone.

My head snaps toward him, and the fact that he looks directly at Jubal tells me this has absolutely nothing to do with the schedule. Easton laughs hard enough to rock back in his chair, and I grab the pen beside his tablet before he can make whatever comment is clearly fighting to get out.

“Keep it up. Remember, I control your calendar now.”

That shuts him up for all of two seconds before Sullivan points out that giving me administrative power while I’m holding something that can be used as a weapon was probably Whit’s first mistake. Easton immediately objects to the suggestion that I’m dangerous, which Tuck takes as an invitation to list evidence to the contrary. I try to defend myself, but Sullivan keeps adding examples that are wildly exaggerated, and Easton abandons his own defense long enough to help him.

I’m laughing before I can remind any of them, they’re supposed to be afraid of me. Every time I get enough air to argue, Tuck adds something worse, until I’m gripping the pen against the table and trying to breathe while Easton looks entirely too pleased with himself for starting this.

My cheeks ache by the time my smile falters at how familiar this feels. How many times did I sit in this building with my face hurting because Easton wouldn’t let me finish my homework in peace? How many afternoons did I wait for Dad to finish something and end up helping Whit with whatever he shoved in front of me because he knew I’d rather be useful than bored?

None of it felt important when it was happening because this was simply where I went, and these were the people who knew exactly how far they could push before I started threatening bodily harm. I stopped coming here so gradually that I never had to admit how much of that I was leaving behind.

Easton says something that sends Tuck into another argument, but I miss the beginning when my attention drifts across the table to Jubal. He’s watching me again; his attention fixed on me like seeing me lose it over something stupid is enough to make him happy. Houston was the only place he’d ever seen me without my history telling him who I was supposed to be, which made wanting him easier because he knew nothing about me except what I chose to give him. I thought bringing him into this world would ruin that, but he’s sitting across from me like I never stopped being the woman he met in Houston.

Easton reaches for the new schedule, and I smack his hand away with the laminated edge without looking away from Jubal.

“Ow.”

“Your schedule privileges have been revoked.”

He protests, but I’m already opening the shared calendar again. I find the first event on next month’s sheet and check the date against each player’s availability before the significance of what I’m doing catches up with me.

I walked into this room looking for the first excuse to leave, and now I’m sitting here checking next month’s schedule like I already expect to still be here.

Chapter Fifteen

Jubal

The locker room is louder than Houston ever was before a preseason game, making it easier to keep my head where it belongs. JJ is sitting two lockers down from me with his play sheet open across his knees. Nobody keeps looking between the two quarterbacks, waiting to see which one of us cracks first, leaving me alone with the urge to retie cleats I already knotted twice.

I reach for the wristband resting beside my helmet instead. The opening script is already inside, and even though I know the calls without looking, I flip through them anyway, checking the same protections and alerts I have been drilling all week until JJ glances over.

“You planning to memorize it harder?”

I look at him. “That a thing?”

“Apparently.”

His mouth twitches, and I hate that I like him. Coach Quinn made the rotation clear this morning: I get the first half, and JJ gets the second. I didn’t ask what happens after that because I don’t want reassurance that the job is mine to lose or a warning that it isn’t. I want to walk off this field having made the question unnecessary.

“For what it’s worth, I hope you light them up.”

I slide the wristband over my forearm. “That doesn’t sound very competitive.”

“It is.” JJ reaches for his helmet. “I just don’t want Coach picking me because you played like shit.”

A laugh catches me off guard, and JJ grins as if he was aiming for it. He’s spent every practice since I arrived trying to take the job from me, but he’s never once acted like that requires wanting me to fail. I don’t know what to do with that yet, so I settle for knocking my fist against his when he offers it.

“Same deal,” I say. “If you get the job, I want it to be because you took it.”

“That sounded almost supportive.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I pick up my helmet, falling in with the offense as the team moves toward the tunnel in waves. King drifts close enough to ask whether I’m finally going to throw him a ball he can take to the house instead of “all this responsible veteran bullshit,” and I tell him I’ll consider it. He starts arguing before I finish the sentence, giving me something easier to listen to than the part of my brain counting how many drives I might realistically get before halftime.