23. Hunter

HUNTER

I make it to the game with hours to spare. It’s the latest I’ve ever arrived at a game, but I’m lucky we’re in California today. Elodie’s plane touched down just long enough for me to exit and refuel before continuing its journey to New York so she can be with Stella.

Coach gives me a long look. “Cutting it close, Holt.”

“Sorry, Coach,” I mumble and scurry into the locker room to suit up.

“Pay up, suckers,” Quincy says. At least five players grumble and slap some money in his awaiting palm.

“Did you assholes really bet against me coming?” I ask, pulling on my pads. Quincy, Jake, D-Rock, Marcus, and Trey all hover near me.

“Honestly?” D-Rock says. “We thought you’d stay with Stella after that bombshell of an interview. Is she doing okay? ”

Anger at Elodie’s situation surges through my blood at the mention of the interview. Elodie was quiet during the entire plane ride over.

“She’s managing,” I say, “as well as she can.”

“Is it true?” Marcus asks.

“Not important.” Quincy smacks him on the back of his head.

“Well,” Trey says, “I already made us T-shirts to wear after the game that say, ‘I hope you enjoy the soundtrack more than the movie.’ We all agreed to wear them and show our support for Stella.”

“Really?” I ask, overcome with emotion. I never expected my teammates to do something like that for the woman I love.

Trey nods, reaches into his locker, and takes out a black shirt with a picture of Stella and a word bubble coming out of her mouth with the quote written in gold writing. It’s hilarious and surprisingly well done on such short notice.

I take the shirt he hands me. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Jake claps me on the shoulder. “Get ready. We have a beast of a game in front of us.”

I snap a picture of the shirt and send it to Elodie and text her an explanation.

Me: Trey made these for you. Fair warning, I’m going to live in the shirt for the next month.

Me: Miss you already. Let me know when you’re at the penthouse.

I keep the phone in my hand, waiting for a response I know won’t come. Not when she won’t get any of these until she lands.

The snap explodes in my ears, a familiar war drum. I prepare to run my route, to catch the quick slant to me, but my route is swarmed. The secondary guessed our play. Shit. Jake drops back, scanning the field for options while Trey and Quincy try to keep him safe.

D-Rock is caught in a double team. The defenders try to anticipate D-Rock’s and Jake’s next move. Our play has completely fallen apart, but D-Rock is one of our best players. If I could reduce the pressure on him, he’ll catch the ball. I know he will.

With a burst of adrenaline, I angle my run towards the linebackers, aiming to draw their attention for a split second. It's a gamble, a calculated risk. Jake is scrambling to find an opening, and I need to do something before he’s sacked. The defenders are close enough for my idea to work, maybe five yards away from each other. They see my sudden change of direction and hesitate for the briefest moment, unsure if I'm now the intended target of Jake’s impending throw.

That hesitation is all it takes. D-Rock, with his trademark quickness, exploits the gap I've created. He shoots through the space between the linebackers, a blur of green and white, leaving them scrambling in his wake. My sacrifice buys him precious seconds, a sliver of hope. Jake adjusts his throw on the fly and the ball sails through the air, a perfect spiral cutting a diagonal path across the field. My breath hitches as D-Rock leaps, extending his body with preternatural grace. His fingertips brush the leather, hauling it in just before it hits the ground. Touchdown.

A primal roar erupts from our sideline, a tidal wave of sound that washes over me. But my focus remains on D-Rock. I sprint towards him and join him in doing the Dougie to celebrate.

The glory of the touchdown isn't mine, but it feels even sweeter than ever before. Impressing Evren or Coach doesn’t matter right now, not when we’re playing in perfect harmony. We’re finally playing like a team—the team Coach and Jake have been pushing us to be all season .

Adrenaline sparks in my blood as we play the rest of the game. Offensively, we continue playing like a well-oiled machine. But fate has other plans for us. No matter how many points we put on the board, the opposing team keeps up with us.

When the clock runs out, we lose, 17–20. It’s bittersweet. I wish we could’ve pulled out the W, to celebrate what we accomplished on the field, but today, the other team was that much better, or luckier, than us.

Losing always sucks, but today’s loss doesn’t burn as bad as it normally does. For the first time, I don’t feel like sulking. I actually feel like it’s not that big of a deal that we lost. Is this how my teammates normally feel? This…unburdened?

Coach follows behind us and says, “D-Rock, Quincy, and Jake will be up for interviews today.”

I sag in relief. There’s no way I’d be able to handle another press conference so soon after Shanghai.

“Great job out there, Trey,” I say to him when I head to my locker. He saved Jake from getting tackled more times than I can count.

“You, too.”

“Thanks for saving our asses out there,” Jake says.

“You know what that means?” I ask, instead of bragging like how I’d usually do.

“That Jake needs to thank the writers of Ted Lasso ?” Quincy chimes in.

I laugh. “Well, that and we might need a Ted Lasso marathon now. ”

“Shh, don’t give him any more ideas,” Trey groans.

“I’m with Trey,” Marcus says. “Next thing you know, Jake’ll come up with a new idea to torture us with.”

“I would never,” Jake says in mock offense.

We all laugh, and I say, “Surrrrre.”

“Interview time,” Coach calls out.

Jake, Quincy, and D-Rock quickly throw on the shirts Trey made and head out for their interview. I’m not sure if Coach approved the shirts or not, but a new media storm is about to start because of them.

When my phone buzzes with Dad’s usual text, a ping of dread goes through me. I’m feeling good, and when I read his messages… I don’t.

Dad: What the hell was that? Do you need some extra practice with the rookies?

Me: I’m proud of how I played.

Dad: What the hell are you talking about? You should be ashamed.

Me: No, you should be ashamed of how you only write to criticize me about how I play. I’m more than the game, you know.

Dad: I don’t criticize you. I help you.

Me: You do criticize me, and that’s not the kind of relationship I want with you.

Dad: If you can’t take feedback, then I don’t know what to tell you.

I shake my head. That’s exactly what I used to say and how I thought before I met Elodie. There’s no use in arguing over text with him, so I ignore his message and schedule a private plane to take me to New York.

On the way to the airport, I call Elodie, but her phone is off, and her voicemail picks up.

“Hey,” I say to her voicemail. “I’m going to get on a plane soon to New York to come to you. I don’t want to leave you alone to deal with everything yourself.” My body buzzes with the anticipation of seeing her again. “We lost today, but for the first time, I don’t care. I could leave the loss on the field, and it’s all because of you. I love you so fucking much, and I can’t wait to show you just how much when I see you soon.”