Chapter 1: Don’t Let Pride Take You Out
Carson
The first thing I felt that morning wasn’t sunlight or the ache in my shoulder. It was Mackenzie—curled into me, her leg hooked over mine, soft hair tickling my chest as she breathed slow and deep. Married life, I’d decided after week one, is my favorite version of us. We’re still us…just with rings and shared insurance.
Emerson’s feet thunder down the hallway before I even open my eyes.
“Mamaaaaaa! Daddy! I want waffles!”
Kenz groans beside me. “Tell her we’re not her short-order cooks.”
“Emerson Marie!” I call, voice still groggy. “What happened to good morning?”
“I did say morning,” she shouts through the door. “Waffles now, please!”
Kenz cracks one eye open. “She’s too smart for her own good.”
“Wonder where she got that from,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “I’ll handle the mini dictator. You rest.”
“You’ve got practice in two hours, babe.”
“I’ll take a hit from a defensive line over arguing about syrup any day.”
She laughs, and God, that sound still knocks the wind out of me. I lean down to kiss her—soft and slow—until Emerson bangs on the door and yells, “GROSS!”
Kenz is still giggling as I drag myself up, shoulder already tight as I reach back to stretch it out.
The trainers cleared me. Coach trusts me. But that whisper in the back of my head? It’s still there. What if it goes again? What if this is the last season I ever suit up?
I shake it off. Not now. Not today.
Today, we’re a little family of three. Waffle-making, championship-chasing, baby-trying chaos.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
A couple hours later and I’m back at practice. Back to the grind. The West Texas sun is relentless, and the turf might as well be lava. Sweat is pouring down my face before we even stretch, and the air buzzes with nervous energy—first week of fall camp.
Freshmen and transfers are flying around like they’ve already won the natty, loud as hell, showboating in every damn drill like the NFL scouts are here to hand out contracts today. I see one of them—number 12, Trevor, a freshman QB from Arizona—make a no-look throw during warmups and flash a grin like he’s Mahomes.
I tuck my helmet under my arm, roll my shoulder gently, and lock eyes with Kayce.
He just smirks. “You gonna let that little dude try and steal your crown?”
“Crown’s not for sale,” I say. “He can wear it in the locker room mirror, but when we’re between the lines?”
Kase claps me on the back. “It’s still your kingdom.”
I like the sound of that. Even if my shoulder doesn’t.
Coach blows the whistle, splitting us into 7-on-7s. I take my place behind center, red jersey stretched tight over my pads. A familiar rhythm clicks in the moment my hand touches the ball—drop back, read the safety, shoulder aches like hell, but I fire anyway. Clean spiral. Touchdown.
Cue silence from the sidelines.
Next play, I do it again.
And again.
By the time we break for water, the new kids have stopped chirping. All except Trevor.
He saunters past me, towel over his head, trying to play it cool. “Nice arm,” he says. “Didn’t you hurt that shoulder though? Just sayin’… Coach might want a backup who can stay on the field.”
I don’t even flinch. I just look at him—dead in the eye.
“I’m not here to stay on the field,” I say. “I’m here to win it. Again.”
And that’s when Kayce steps up behind me, towering and unbothered.
“Better learn your place, rookie,” he says calmly. “That’s our quarterback. You get in line, or you get out the way.”
The other vets—Jace, KJ, even quiet Milo—nod, forming that invisible wall behind me.
The message is loud and clear:
This is my team. This is our year.
And my shoulder?
It isn’t done yet.
The cool air inside the locker room hits me like a blessing after three hours of hell on the turf. My pads feel like bricks, my jersey clings to me like plastic wrap, and my shoulder’s screaming—not sharp pain, just that deep, nagging ache I’ve learned to live with.
I drop onto the bench at my locker and pull off my helmet. Kayce sits across from me, unlacing his cleats, eyes flicking toward my arm.
“You good?” he asks low, so the others won’t hear.
I roll my shoulder in a slow circle, trying to hide the wince. “Yeah. Just camp. You know.”
He gives me that look—part teammate, part brother. The kind that says don’t bullshit me.
Before I can answer again, Coach McGuire’s voice rings out from behind the corner.
“Knox. Office.”
Kase raises his brows. “Good luck.”
I toss my helmet onto the bench and stand, ignoring how tight my muscles feel as I follow the voice of the man who holds my entire season in his clipboard.
Coach’s office is quiet, tucked behind the film room. I step inside, shut the door, and brace myself.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just scribbles something on a practice chart, then finally leans back in his chair.
“You lit it up out there.”
I nod once. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Receivers are in sync with you. Footwork’s sharp. Reads are clean.”
Pause.
“But that throw to the post on rep twelve? You reached for your shoulder.”
I stay silent.
He leans forward, hands folded. “I know you’re tough, Carson. I know you’ll gut through anything for this team. But I also know what it looks like when a guy’s protecting something.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
Coach raises a brow. “Are you fine, or are you saying you’re fine?”
I look him in the eye. “I’m not coming off the field. Not after last year. Not with that ring still warm on our fingers.”
“I’m not trying to pull you,” he says, calmer now. “I’m trying to keep you. You want another title? So do I. But I’m not risking your arm for it in week one. We go the distance when you play smart—not when you pretend you’re invincible.”
I let out a slow breath.
“…How bad does it look?”
“Depends on how honest you are with rehab and tape,” he says. “You keep hiding it, you’re one hard hit from ending your season in October. Maybe forever.”
That word—forever—hits different now. I have a wife. A daughter. Maybe another kid on the way if we get lucky.
“I hear you, Coach,” I say finally.
He nods, but the weight between us doesn’t lift.
“You want to be great? Protect what makes you great. Don’t let your pride take you out of the game.”
I walk out of his office with my cleats in hand, tape peeling off my wrist, sweat already drying to salt.
Kayce catches my eye from across the room.
I give him a short nod.
But deep down?
I’m not sure if I’m lying to my coach…or myself.
Our apartment smells like waffles and Play-Doh when I walk in, the front door clicking shut behind me. Emerson’s tiny socks are already scattered in the entryway—pink with glittery stars. A Taylor Swift song is playing low from the kitchen speaker, and over the music, I hear her little voice say, “Daddy’s home!”
Two seconds later, she tears around the corner wearing her princess dress and one shoe, arms wide like she’d missed me for a year instead of a morning.
“Hey, Bug,” I say, kneeling just in time to catch her.
She hugs my neck tight. “You smell like football.”
“Hope that’s a good thing.”
She pulls back and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like outside and grown-up sweat.”
I laugh, scooping her up into one arm and carrying her into the kitchen. Mackenzie’s at the stove in an old Red Raiders tee that hits her mid-thigh, hair up in a bun, cheeks flushed from heat and probably Emy’s nonstop commentary.
She turns toward me with a smile. “There’s the man of the hour.”
“Hey,” I say softly.
She steps over, gives me a quick kiss, then looks me dead in the eye.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shift Emerson to my other arm. “Just hot. Camp stuff.”
Her brows dip slightly, and she reaches out, gently brushing her fingers along the edge of my shoulder pad still clinging to my undershirt. “You tight?”
“No more than usual.”
She doesn’t say anything right away. Just keeps her hand there, like she’s listening for something deeper under the skin. Then, quietly: “Did you throw too hard again?”
I hesitate a beat too long.
She sighs. “Car—“
“I had to set the tone,” I say. “New guys think they run the place.”
“You already set the tone, baby. You are the tone.”
Emy tugs on my shirt. “Mama says you gotta ice it.”
Kenz smirks. “That’s right, Doctor Emy.”
I smile for her sake and kiss Emerson’s forehead, then gently set her down. “Alright, I’ll ice it. I just…don’t wanna make it a thing, you know?”
Kenz grabs a towel, wraps an ice pack in it, and hands it over like she’s done it a hundred times—and she has. “You don’t have to make it a thing. But you can’t pretend it’s nothing either. You’ve got people counting on you. And I don’t mean just the ones in cleats.”
I press the ice to my shoulder and lean against the counter, finally letting the tension roll off me just a little. She steps closer, resting her head against my good shoulder.
“You’re not weak for needing rest,” she says. “You’re smart for protecting what matters.”
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close. “You always know, don’t you?”
She smiles into my shirt. “I always know.”
Emerson, crouched under the table now, looks up and shouts, “Are y’all done being mushy? I need waffles again!”
I laugh and kiss Mackenzie’s temple. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You better. She’s been asking for her own syrup line.”
Of course she has.
My shoulder hurts like hell, and my pride is bruised from pretending—but in this kitchen, with my girls? I still feel whole.
It’s almost midnight when we finally lay down in bed.
Emerson’s finally asleep after three stories and a whole song-and-dance about monsters under her bed. The apartment’s dark except for the glow of the streetlight slipping through our bedroom blinds, casting soft lines across the ceiling.
Kenz lay beside me, one hand on my chest, her breathing calm and steady.
She wasn’t asleep. I could tell by the way her fingers tapped lightly against my ribs, like she was counting out some rhythm only she knew.
“You’re still awake,” I murmur.
“So are you.”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t.”
She shifts, propping herself on her elbow so she could see me. Her hair spilled over her shoulder, messy and golden in the low light.
“You’ve been quiet all night.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Just tired.”
“Carson.”
Her voice is soft. Not scolding. Just real.
I swallow. My shoulder throbbed underneath the wrap I haven’t bothered to take off. It always gets worse at night—when the adrenaline wore off and all the what-ifs crept in.
“What if it doesn’t hold up?” I say finally, the words hanging heavy in the room. “What if that was it? One ring, one title, and I’ve already peaked.”
Kenz is quiet for a moment. Then she leans down and kisses the corner of my mouth, whispering, “You didn’t peak, baby. You fought. You won. And now you’re fighting again.”
“But what if I don’t win this one?”
“You don’t have to win every battle,” she says gently. “You just have to survive the ones that matter.”
Her hand slides up to rest over my heart. “And this? This life? Me and Emerson and—maybe—someone new soon? That’s your real season, Carson. That’s the one that counts.”
I turn toward her, jaw clenched.
“I just…I want her to see me as more than broken. If I’m not out there leading the team—who am I?”
She shakes her head slowly. “You’re her daddy. You’re my husband. You’re the guy who makes pancakes in dinosaur shapes even when you’re sore and exhausted. That’s more than any stat line.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
Then her voice drops, barely above a whisper. “I’d rather have you whole and with us than legendary and gone.”
That one hits deep.
I pull her close, pressing my forehead to hers. “I don’t want to let you down.”
“You haven’t,” she says. “Not once.”
I kiss her—slow and grateful. And when we settle again, tangled together beneath the sheets, her hand finds mine under the covers and holds it.
That night, for the first time since fall camp started, I let myself believe I don’t have to carry it all alone.
