10. Hunter

HUNTER

S weat slicks my palms as we huddle around Jake. It’s our first game of the season and it’s a home game. We’re in the red zone, prime scoring territory. The crowd buzzes, anticipating a touchdown. Jake barks out the play: “Omaha, Green. Right Slash.”

This is what I’ve been waiting for, for the pass to go to me.

On the snap, I break right,a blur of green against the black of the defense.The ball,a perfect spiral,seems to hang in the air.I leap,fingertips brushing the leather before I engulf it in a tight grip.I land with a thud,the ball clutched securely to my chest, and sprint toward the end zone.

The defenders try to stop me, but they can’t. I’m untouchable.

The roar of the crowd is a tidal wave,threatening to drown out everything else when I cross the goal line.

I slam the ball down and pump my fist in the air. That’ll show Evren that I’m a great player and silence any doubt he may have about renewing my contract.

But a yellow flag flutters in the distance,and my stomach lurches.A collective groan ripples through the stands.

“Illegal formation on the offense," the referee announces,his voice amplified through the stadium speakers.I glance at Jake in confusion, and he shakes his head, also not knowing what’s going on.

The replay on the jumbotron confirms my worst fears.D-Rock, our wide receiver,takes a subtle step inwards just before the snap. The officials huddle,the tension thick enough to chew on.Every second stretches into an eternity.Finally,the referee emerges,his face a mask of grim determination.He strides towards the center of the field,the stadium falling silent in anticipation.Raising his arm,he barks into the microphone,“Upon review,the touchdown is called back.Penalty:illegal formation on the offense.Five-yard loss and replay of the down.”

A collective groan ripples through the stands. The air whooshes out of me,the weight of the overturned score settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

I storm to D-Rock and grab his helmet. “What the fuck? You blew the play.”

“The ref has it out for me,” he seethes. “I didn’t do shit.”

“Stop fucking around and do your fucking job. ”

Quincy claps me on the shoulder and tugs me away. “Calm down. Coach is watching.”

I shake him off, even if he’s right. I’m supposed to be integrating with the team, but I have zero desire to do that if mistakes like that cost us a touchdown. Everyone’s always watching me, waiting for me to mess up but also hoping I won’t. The cameras follow me on the field nonstop, a result of being one of the best players on the team. The fans wearing my jersey, Coach, and my dad are relying on me to do well. The pressure to perform is almost too much. Everyone is expecting perfection, and so am I. Why is it so difficult for my team to expect the same from themselves?

The rest of the game passes in much of the same way. The team is disjointed, dropping passes and missing blocks. We’re playing like we’re all rookies and not a team that’s won the Super Bowl. Frustration crackles inside me. Even if I play my best, it’s not enough.

No matter what I do, it doesn’t help because we still end up losing by fourteen points. Fourteen points too many. We all trudge to the locker room with our heads hanging low. Muffled thuds echo as players slam their helmets into lockers. I throw my helmet onto the ground and rip the sticky tape off my gloves, the sound a harsh rasp against the tense silence.

“What the hell was up with you today?” I ask Trey. We may be the same height at six-six, but he’s bigger than me, more broad-shouldered, and Jake’s main protection as left tackle.

“Nothing,” he says glaring at me.

“Getting Jake sacked isn’t nothing. It’s your job to protect him, not be a revolving door.” I point to D-Rock. “And you. Have you forgotten how to play the game?”

“Shut the fuck up,” D-Rock explodes, getting into my face. “I made one mistake, but what about yours?”

“I don’t make mistakes,” I say. It sounds cocky, but it’s true. My dad made sure of it.

D-Rock snorts. “Yeah? What about your sloppy running route.”

“Sloppy?” I laugh. “The only thing sloppy out there was your footwork.”

“Say that again.” D-Rock gets into my face and pushes me in the chest.

Trey pulls D-Rock back with an arm wrapped around his waist. “He’s not worth it. We all know Hunter is Mr. Perfect. It’s a wonder he doesn’t play the whole game by himself.”

I’d probably do better by myself than with the lot of them. They don’t seem to care like I do that we lost. All our asses are on the line with Evren in charge, not just mine, if we don’t turn it around. Somehow, they’re not getting it, and the fact that they don’t get it makes me want to scream in frustration.

Quincy grabs my shoulder and tugs me away. “Walk it off. ”

“Everyone get cleaned up,” Coach bellows from the doorway. “Jake and Hunter are needed for post-game interviews in ten minutes. Tomorrow morning at eight, we’ll have a film session to review whatever the hell just happened on the field.”

I run a towel over my face and remain in my gear. Jake goes first into the conference room, and while I’m waiting for my turn, Coach pulls me to the side. “Tough game out there today.”

“Yeah…” I hate disappointing Coach, and a loss is a disappointment no matter what. He’s the type of coach I’ve always wanted—a steady,unwavering force. He has a quiet authority about him that commands respect. He’s stern, talented, but also fair, which makes me respect him more than anything else. Being under his leadership has turned me into the player that I am today. Dad likes to think it comes from him, but it’s because of Coach.

“Listen, I’ve always respected how much you care about the game and your work ethic. It’s why I want to give you a heads-up. As we saw today, the team dynamics are off. And if you’re not careful, fingers will start pointing your way.”

“But it’s not my fault.”

“You’re right, not entirely, but you’re also not helping your situation.”

Shit. My contract, my security, and my future are hanging on by a thread. Part of me hoped I didn’t have to make nice with the team, but it looks like I’m going to be forced to.

“I understand,” I say. “I’ll do better.”

“I know you will.” Coach checks his watch. “Let’s get you to your interview.”

Stepping into the brightly lit interview room, the camera lights feel like accusatory spotlights. I hold my head high, a flicker of defiance running through me. There’s no doubt they’re going to ask sharp and pointed questions. But maybe I can use this interview to prove myself to Coach and Evren.

The moment I sit down, I’m pelted by question after question.

A man in a red shirt asks, “There seemed to be a lot of frustration on the field today. How would you describe the current team morale and dynamic?”

“After a tough loss like this, there’s definitely some frustration. It's never easy to lose, especially when you feel like you could’ve done better. But we're not going to let this get us down. We'll learn from our mistakes, communicate better, and come back stronger next week.” It’s a bullshit diplomatic answer, but it works. The reporter nods and jots down some notes.

More questions come. From questioning my contract extension, to asking what my thoughts are on specific plays. I answer as neutrally as possible, and I think I’m doing a decent job.

Until a man in a black shirt says, “Your new girlfriend, Stella Wilde, came to the game today, and it just so happens to be a day your team loses. Does this mean she’s a bad luck charm?”

The reporter's question hangs in the air, a cheap shot disguised as curiosity. My jaw clenches in anger. “Are you seriously asking this bullshit right now?” I glare at the reporter. “Reaching a little too hard for a tabloid headline there, aren’t you? Stella didn’t influence how the team played, period. And bringing my personal life into this interview is a low fucking blow.”

The air crackles with tension and I’m done with being polite. If they’re going to blame Stella for the team’s performance, they can go fuck right off with that line of thinking.

“That’s all for today,” I say, grabbing my bag and storming out of the room. The loss will be dissected, analyzed, and replayed for days. But blaming Stella? That’s unacceptable. She’s off-limits.

I shower and change into my normal clothes as fast as possible. When I check my phone, there’s a new text from my dad.

Dad: Your performance was a disappointment. If you actually cared about winning, you wouldn’t be wasting away everything we’ve worked so hard for.

Me: I played as best as I could.

Dad: Your best isn’t good enough. Get some extra practices in this week and make up for it.

I shove my phone in my pocket, hating that he’s saying everything I’m already thinking. If I don’t win, I’m nothing. It doesn’t matter that the team’s not working well together, or that we made some stupid mistakes. In Dad’s eyes, it all still reflects on me. In his eyes, it’s always my fault if the team loses.

When I exit the locker room, I find Stella waiting for me in my team colors of dark green and white. Her face lights up when she spots me. Sidestepping her security, she pulls me into a hug. For a single moment, all my disappointment fades into the background. With her arms around me, everything is better.

“Hey,” she says.

I breathe her in, taking a moment to hold someone who doesn’t hate me, who doesn’t blame me.

“You doing okay?” she asks, whispering the question into my ear.

And just like that, I’m reminded of our failure from today. Agitation rises inside me, and I can’t stop from snapping, “I just lost a game.” I pull out of the hug. “In what world would I be okay after that?”

“Okkaaaay.” She glances around, probably taking note of all the people still around. “Let’s get out of here.”

I nod once and lead her to my car. Every shutter of the cameras causes my rage to ratchet up. It takes all my willpower to keep my face blank. I refuse to give them the shot they want. The one where I make a fool of myself that’ll spur more headlines I can’t afford to have right now.

“That was a tough game,” she says once we’re on the road.

“How would you know?” I glance at her, my anger at myself spilling over onto her. “You don’t know anything about football.”

“Wow, are you always this horrible after losing, or am I getting special treatment?”

I blow out a long breath, trying to rein in my temper. “I’m sorry. It’s just… We lost and it’s a critical time for me. Then the reporters started blaming you and I’m just over it.”

“They were blaming me?”

“Don’t worry, I shut that line of questioning down.”

“It’s pretty ridiculous they think I have that kind of power. That would be cool, though.”

I glance at her, and she’s bobbing her head and starts to sing softly, “Mother is mothering, and has the power to control football games. It’s a new power unlocked.” She stops and laughs. “That’s a hit song right there. ”

“Uh-huh,” I say sarcastically, but honestly, I’d listen to her sing how to open a shampoo bottle because she’s that damn talented.

“Listen,” she says. “I get that you’re upset and want to be left alone. You can let me out at the next traffic light, and I’ll leave you to it.”

I give her a long look. “Do you really think I’m going to let you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well, my security team is right behind us. I can jump into their car, and they can take me home.”

“You don’t want to be with me?”

“You’ve got it backwards,” she says. “You’re the one who doesn’t want me around. Your attitude says it all, and honestly? I’m going through too much right now to subject myself to your rudeness.”

“Rudeness?”

“I mean what would you call an unhealthy way of dealing with disappointment and frustration by lashing out at the people around you?”

I pause. Shit. She’s right. It’s hard to rein in my frustration over a loss on a good day, let alone a day like today.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m used to being alone after a loss…”

“Thank you for apologizing.”

I sigh. “The team played like shit, and if this continues, Evren’s going to start cutting people.”

“And you’re worried you’ll be one of them? ”

I nod. “Coach hinted that I might be blamed for the bad team dynamics.”

“And? Are you to blame?”

“I don’t know.” Dad would say I am.

“Well then, I’ve got the perfect idea,” she says. “Why don’t we go bowling and invite Jake and Quincy along?”

I glance at her. “Right now?”

“There’s no better time.”

“And why would I invite them?”

“Well, it seems like you all need a plan, but more importantly, you deserve some fun after the shitshow that was today.”

“Who thinks bowling is fun?” I ask, genuinely perplexed by her proposal.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”

“You mean the kind that hates bowling? Yeah, I am. Because it’s boring.”

“Then you must’ve been doing it wrong.”

“How can someone bowl wrong?”

“Easy.” She grins. “Because bowling is supposed to be a drinking game.”

“If you need to drink to make a game fun, then that, by definition, means it’s not fun.”

“Okay, Merriam-Webster Dictionary. How about you try it? For me?”

As if I could refuse her anything when she asks like that. “Fine. ”

She beams. “Then message your friends. Now.”

“Why the rush?”

“Because I don’t want you to change your mind.”

I snort. “I doubt they’ll want to come.”

“Well, you’ll never know until you ask.”

I write them when we stop at a traffic light, fully expecting them to decline. I would if I were them, wanting to lick my wounds by myself. But less than five minutes later, Jake and Quincy agree to meet.

Well, fuck. I guess we’re going bowling.

The people at the alley let us in for free. Not because we’re famous, but because “we lost so bad, it’s the least they can do.” Stella laughs and slips each of the employees multiple bills in thanks.

Quincy and Jake talk to Stella while I order us all sodas since we’ve officially started the season and we’re not allowed to drink unless it’s a bye week. When I return to them, Stella is at the computer inputting our names.

Hers is Queen of Bowling.

Quincy’s is Mr. Cool.

Jake’s is Too Pretty to Lose.

And mine? Jeggings. Fucking Jeggings.

“Why do they get good names, and I don’t?” I demand .

Stella pats me on the shoulder. “I ran out of characters. Better luck next time.”

Quincy chokes on a laugh. “You’re my hero,” he says to Stella.

“A toast.” Jake raises his drink toward Stella. “To the queen.”

Stella laughs as she clinks her cup against the two of theirs and takes a sip.

“Fine,” I say. “I get it. I’m in time-out for how I acted earlier.”

“Aww, you’re smart too,” Stella says, patting my chest. “If you’re good, I’ll change your name.”

“To something good, right?”

“Maybe.” A smile graces her lips. “All right, the rules are simple. We take a sip after each person goes, two for a gutter ball, three for a spare, and four for a strike. Normally it’s more fun with alcohol, but we’ll work with what we’ve got.”

“Who goes first?” Jake says.

“Me, of course,” she says. She grabs a purple ball, throws it, and gets a strike.

“Damn,” Jake says. “You really are a queen.”

“Drink up, boys.” Stella grins.

The rest of us are shit. Gutter balls every time. Stella thinks this is the funniest thing in the world, and every time she laughs, I can’t help but smile. Maybe bowling isn’t that bad, as long as I’m doing it with her.

After we all have a turn, Stella nudges me with her elbow. “So… Are you ready? ”

“For?”

“To talk to them.” She nods over to Quincy and Jake arguing about which ball to use. “To make a plan.”

“I think I’m good right here.”

“Do I need to change your name to scaredy-cat? Because I’ll do it.”

I sigh. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“Nope.” She grins.

“I don’t know what to tell them.”

“How about the truth? That you’re worried about the team and that you’re on the chopping block.”

It’s good advice, but I’m not used to opening up to them about my problems. We may be friends, but I’ve always kept them at a distance. It’s safer that way, to not get too close to anyone. Stella’s right, though. I’m going to need them if we want to win.

“Fine.” I stand and walk over to my friends. “Hey, can we talk for a second?”

“Sure,” Quincy says.

“What’s up?” Jake asks.

“Coach warned me that soon people will be pointing fingers about the cause of our poor team dynamics.”

Quincy stares at me for a beat before his eyes widen in understanding. “And they might blame you?”

“Shit,” Jake says. “You’d be an easy out since most of the players don’t like you.”

“But you’re one of our best players,” Quincy says .

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Not when Evren has it out for me.”

“I overheard some of the assistant coaches talking,” Jake says. “Apparently, Evren uses the data from our shoulder pad tags to evaluate our performances in training and at games. He’s already benched Aaron until further notice.”

Shit. Benching Aaron makes sense, but it also means Evren’s serious. Aaron’s been on the team for years as a defensive lineman, but his stamina just isn’t good enough.

“So, no pressure or anything,” Quincy jokes.

“I think we need some team-building events,” Jake says. “I don’t want anyone from offense to get cut.”

“I’m in,” Quincy says before they both turn to me, waiting for my answer.

The unspoken question feels like a test. I’d normally be the first to make fun of such a proposal, and based on the looks on Quincy’s and Jake’s faces, they fully expect me to do that now. All our asses are on the line under Evren, even Jake’s and Quincy’s. Maybe I don't show it, but I care. Deeply. About everything. From my friends’ futures to Stella’s impression of me to what kind of player I am. It’s just easier, safer, to act like I don’t. That way if anyone doesn’t like me, it doesn’t hurt as bad since they don’t really know me.

I glance at Stella, who’s not so subtly eavesdropping on our conversation from her seat. She keeps pushing me out of my comfort zone, forcing me to face my fears head-on. When she does it, it somehow feels right.

“I’m in,” I finally say.

Jake and Quincy blink at me in surprise for a heartbeat before clapping me on the back. Stella smiles and skips over, joining in on the celebration.

“Proud of you,” she whispers, going to her toes and kissing my cheek.

I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her to me, making this moment last longer. The moment someone told me they’re proud of me off the field. Playing football is the only time I do something worthy of praise. People praise me for my performance or for making them money. But in the end, it wasn’t really about me but about them. About what I did or could do for them.

I breathe her in. She somehow has the ability to make everything better by just being herself. It’s a struggle to remind myself that this is fake, that she’s just acting like a good girlfriend. Even knowing this, I can’t help but say, “Your words mean everything to me.”

She pulls back in confusion and searches my face. I wish I could take back the words, the truth, but it’s too late. It takes a moment for realization to follow.

“You deserve to hear that every day,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” I try to brush off her statement, uncomfortable with how easily she sees past my defenses .

“I would.” She catches my gaze. “I would.” She repeats it, as if to drive the point home.

“All right, lovebirds,” Jake says. “Does this mean Hunter gets to change his name?”

“Nope.” Stella grins, still staring at me. “I’m quite fond of Jeggings.”