when I see that Archer has already run and is listed as the eighth fastest overall.
Terrance does the dash then walks back up to the bench to take a breath.
“Shit, 4.47. I ran better on campus last week.” He shakes his head and sits down.
The rest of the group finishes in unimpressive fashion, and I beat back the emotions jammed in my throat. I could have beat all of them.
“Time for us to move on,” says the trainer.
“I still haven’t run, sir.” The words are out before I can think.
He gives me a squinty-eyed look. “Thought you were skipping this station.” His eyes flick over my injured leg and then down to my ankle. The boot is still on the bench near the height station, but I refuse to look at it.
What if…what if I ignored the injury?
I weigh the options in my head in two seconds flat.
If I don’t do this now, the NFL is never going to happen.
I’ve been pushing myself for four years, and I’m going to let one injury slow me down?
FTS. Fuck that shit.
“I wanna run.”
He frowns. “You don’t have any shoes. You left them back at the last station.”
I look over at Terrance. “What size do you wear?”
“Fourteens.” He takes a hard look at my face, gives me a lopsided grin. After a beat, he takes them off and offers them up.
“Close enough. Thanks, man.”
I squeeze my feet into Terrance’s shoes and lace them up. They’re tight but fine. I do some stretches, rubbing my calves and ankles.
“Show us what you got, Townsend!” yells one of the other guys in our group. The yelling gets other people’s attention, and I feel a few eyes looking at us. I shake it off, running in place in quick steps, getting my heart rate up. I see Archer craning his neck toward me from a huddle of defensive players, and I toss my hand up and give him a wave. I’ll show him.
The trainer leads me to the line. “Get set there and start whenever you’re ready. Your time will be measured by laser from the moment you start until you cross the line at the end of the track. Got it? No second chances.” His eyebrow cocks as his eyes brush over my foot. “Don’t hurt yourself, son.”
I stretch more, getting the jitters out and warming up my muscles. I bounce on the turf in the weird shoes. Shit, this is insane.
With my feet flat on the ground and sweaty hands planted in front of me, I get set.
This is it, my one shot. “Lose Yourself” by Eminem goes through my head.
Prove you’re better.
Be worthy.
Because I am. I am. I’m not the piece of shit my parents said I was.
Charisma slips back into my head. I think about how she’s always believed in my talent, even when I didn’t believe in us. That first night in Cadillac’s, she didn’t walk out the door until she told me she was happy for me.
She’s scared, just like me, but she loves me—a poor trailer park kid from Mississippi.
“Run when you’re ready, Townsend,” the trainer calls out from a few feet away.
Everything in the stadium zooms in until it’s just me, heart pounding, and I use it, focusing on the yards in front of me.
Adrenaline courses through my body.
One shot, one shot.
I take off.
Everything’s a blur as I put one foot in front of the other and streak down the short forty-yard course. I hear yelling but don’t care if they’re cheering me on or hoping for me to fail. This is my moment. If it goes to hell, I’ll pay the consequences.
I cross the line, jog to a stop, and turn to see the time as it’s posted on the board.
4.34 seconds. Fast—so goddamn fast.
Pride ripples through me. Shit. My ankle throbs, but I know it’s good. It’s going to be fine.
I tilt my head up and close my eyes.
Charisma, Charisma, Charisma. Where are you, baby? I need you so much.
I’m not listening to the guys cheering and slapping me on the back. I’m not even looking at the scouts on the sidelines.
I picture her in my head, those lips, those eyes I drown in, and I feel lighter than I have in….years.
I’ve been saying football is the one thing I can’t live without, but it’s a lie.
She is. It’s her.
She’s been there the entire time, even when she had her rules, and I’ve got to be what she needs—because existing without her is not an option. And