End Game

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Nate

The locker room was quiet, save for the steady hiss of the shower in the corner. Most of the guys had already cleared out, leaving me alone with the echo of my own thoughts. Practice had been brutal, but I welcomed it—it was the only thing that kept me steady.

For the past month, I've lived in overdrive—drills until my legs burned, weights until my arms shook, late nights staring at game tape until my eyes blurred. Football wasn't just the game anymore. It was my lifeline. The only place I could put all the anger, betrayal, and noise into something that made sense.

And yeah—it kept me from thinking too much about Aurora.

I've been cold to her on purpose. Ignoring her texts. Letting calls go unanswered. Avoiding her whenever I can. Not because I don't want to see her—God, I do—but because I can't let myself go there. Not when I can't trust her.

When she kept the truth from me—let me walk into that storm blind—it split something open inside me. It wasn't just about the article or losing Florida. It was about what it meant: that she hadn't protected me. That she chose silence over honesty.

It dragged me right back to the lesson I learned the hard way with my birth mom—people will put themselves first, even if it costs you everything. And once you've been left behind enough times, you learn not to lean on anyone.

That's what hurt most. Because I loved her. More than I've ever loved anyone. She was it. The one person who made me believe I could have more than where I came from. A future with someone who saw me, not just my scars.

But love isn't enough without trust.

So I've kept my distance, focusing on the only thing I can control: the work. Becoming the man I want to be—whether she's in my life or not.

Some days, the anger eats me alive. Other days, it's the memories that cut deepest—the way she laughed, the way she looked at me like I mattered. I miss her. But missing her doesn't erase the truth. If I ever let her back in, I need to know she'll fight for me the way I fought for her.

Because I've lost too much already to gamble on someone who isn't all in.

I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and checked my phone out of habit. A missed call flashed across the screen—Coach Reynolds, Florida. My stomach dropped.

Before I could think, the phone buzzed again. I swiped to answer.

"Hello?" My voice was still hoarse from shouting plays.

"Nate Johnson?" The voice on the other end was firm, professional.

"Yeah, that's me."

"This is Coach Reynolds from the Florida training program."

My grip tightened on the phone. After everything that had gone down—the article, the fallout—I braced for bad news. "Uh, yes, sir."

"I wanted to let you know we've reviewed some additional information regarding your application. After careful consideration, we've decided to reinstate your spot in the summer program."

I froze. "Wait—what?"

"We received a letter," he continued, "advocating on your behalf. It was... compelling. It included testimonials from your community, detailed your volunteer work, and highlighted your perseverance despite challenges. It spoke to your character, Nate, and convinced us to take another look. The article has since been retracted. You must have some very important people looking out for you."

My chest tightened. "A letter? From who?"

"I believe her name was Aurora Westbrook," he said matter-of-factly. "I'll forward you a copy. You'll also receive an official apology from the program shortly. Congratulations, Nate—we look forward to seeing you this summer."