“Bad luck about the ankle. Heard about it in the break room,” the trainer says.

“Doesn’t even hurt,” I tell him. It still twinges, though, and I know it’s healing.

I step up to be measured. “Number eighty-two. Six foot, three and five-eighths inches,” the trainer calls out to someone who types it in to be displayed on a large board, the measurements appearing next to my name.

I look over and watch a group of NFL scouts scribble notes on their pads.

Blaze Townsend: tall, well built, but can’t run.

Whatever.

I shuffle to the next station with the rest of the group. Frustration swirls inside me as we make our way to the forty-yard dash, the granddaddy of all measurements for wide receivers. Every molecule inside me wants to run, wants to show them that I know I’m the best. You can be short, fat, unable to jump over a mushroom, and have seven fingers on one hand, but if you can run a fast forty, the scouts will notice.

“You running?” asks Terrance, a wide receiver from Alabama who I’ve gotten to know over the last two days of the Combine. He’s putting his shoes back on. I realize I left mine back at the bench, my thoughts scattered. Won’t need them anyway.

“Injured,” I tell him. “Just gonna sit in the waiting area now and watch.”

He frowns, probably looking at my face. “Man, that sucks. All I care about is getting on that board and seeing how fast I am.”

I compose my face slowly, working it into the semblance of a good-luck smile. “Break a leg, Alabama.”

He walks up to the track and I take a seat, my rage rushing fast and furious 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 love? It’s just a word. It’s a pretty word that scrambles my head and makes me scared. Hell, maybe it makes lots of people afraid. Terrified of getting hurt, of being left behind, of giving a part of yourself to someone while knowing they have the power to change your whole world.

But she’s worth fighting for.

Wherever she is, I kiss my fingers and send them up into the crowd. For her.

My name jumps onto the board as the third-fastest wide receiver of the day and the fifth-fastest overall. I stare up at the lights of the stadium, emotion tight in my chest.

I’m going to find her.

And this time I know what to say. I’m not going to be afraid. Maybe she’s given up on me, but I’m not letting her go.

32

“Goodness, you’re up early for spring break,” Ma murmurs as I make my way into the kitchen wearing old joggers and a baggy Waylon shirt. “It’s six AM, dear. I thought you’d sleep in after that late flight.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble as I walk over to the coffee table and pour a cup. Fuck carbs, I think as I throw in a heavy dose of cream and stir.

“You look pale.”

I nod. I flew out of Jackson late Friday night and arrived last night around eleven. My body nearly collapsed when I walked in the door and Pop, Ma, and Mattie all ran over to throw their arms around me. They acted like I was a celebrity who’s been in hiding for months. Ma fawned over me, running her hands over my face and hair, Pop picked me up and swung me around, and then Mattie got his turn. Through the laugher and their questions, I fought back tears. I’ve missed them so much more than I realized.

I take a seat at our small table in the breakfast nook and stare down at the worn scratches and dents on the table. One is from when Mattie threw a butter knife at me over who got the last piece of pie, another from a plate Ma dropped and shattered on the wood when I told her I was accepting the full-ride to Waylon. There’s even a Sharpie mark I made when I was a kid, drawing a picture for Pop to hang in his office a few blocks over. It’s still up on the wall there, stick figures of me, Mattie, Paulie, and my parents.

She sits down across from me and clears her throat. She’s freshly showered and dressed in her usual slacks and nice blouse, hair coiffed, makeup on. Pop’s probably already gone. Running a small business never stops—even on the weekend. Plus, he’s putting Mattie through law school. That isn’t cheap.

“I’m worried about you. Is it…is it that boy in Mississippi? I thought you might bring him home so I could check his teeth or at least get a detailed history of his background.”