Page 17 of Fighting Fate

I close my text messages and lift the outfit Payson has selected, pausing briefly.

Is this what I meant by the college experience I described to Mom? Venturing into new friendships, embracing new experiences?

Seizing the clothes, I move toward the bathroom, but not without shooting Payson a cautionary glance. "I'm trusting you—this better not turn into regret."

Coach Jensen's voice thunders across the field. "Chasen, let's run that play again!"

We're drilling the same old play we've been perfecting since I was a freshman. Sure, it's a killer on the field and has bagged us some solid wins; I could run it in my sleep at this point. But there's always some freshman who hasn't learned the hard lesson about partying during the week.

I bet a few of them are nursing hangovers from last night's Alpha Rho Tau bash. I was all set to go, decked out and everything, but then I thought better of it. Senior year's about getting priorities straight, after all.

I line up, ready for action. Bensen snaps me the ball—did I mention he's the top center in the nation? The guy's a beast, both on the field and off. As I call the signals, the ball thuds into my hands, and I scan the defense.

The sun's beating down, casting these long, stretching shadows over the field as we run through the play. Our O-line is like a fortress, giving me the protection I need.

"Keep the rush off, guys! Tighten it up!" I yell, watching the defense try to break through. We move like a well-oiled machine, me faking a handoff, looking for an open man.

Our receivers are sprinting, juking, doing everything to shake the defense. The tight ends and slots are hunting for any gap they can find. I dodge a linebacker, buying myself a precious second. A receiver breaks free, waving for the ball. I let it rip; the spiral cutting through the air, just as a defender nearly gets me.

I imagine the crowd going wild as my receiver snags the ball and makes a beeline for the end zone. It's a thing of beauty, exactly what we aim for every game.

"Touchdown!" Coach bellows. "Excellent work, team! Let's do it one more time! Sharpen up!"

Seriously? Again?

Luke chats away as we head to the showers in the locker room. "This week's practice, man—brutal. Makes those insane two-a-days in the summer seem easy."

I just nod. Coach has been on us, hard, pushing us past our limits. But something's been off for me. The usual football aches and pains have been there, sure, but there's this dizziness, like everything's narrowing down to a point. My teammates have been checking on me, and I keep saying I'm fine. Practice seems smooth enough, but deep down, there's this gnawing worry.

Is it the late summer heat? Maybe I'm dehydrated? Or is it something else? The thought twists in my stomach, but I push it away and focus on getting to the locker room.

As I try to keep my thoughts on track, memories of my childhood have a way of seeping in. It's like being hit by a wave of anxiety that stops you cold, bombarding you with endless what ifs. You'd imagine that surviving cancer would banish those fears, but they stick around, lurking in the dark, ready to leap out over the smallest worry. Yet, I've always been a fighter, never one to get bogged down by fear. Pushing forward with optimism has been my mantra because, honestly, what's the alternative? Living in constant fear? That's never been who I am.

Though, Coach Jensen's relentless training regimen doesn't help. In all my years with him, I've learned that "intensity" is his middle name. His idea of a light day is still a workout that would make most people's muscles scream.

Josh, our star receiver, pipes up, "Brutal? More like merciless." He's right. Josh is a force to be reckoned with on the field, and his NFL prospects are as bright as Bensen's. They're both incredible athletes, destined for greatness.

Luke's nodding, adding, "Yeah, but that's senior year for you. Coach is pushing us to the limit, especially for those of us with an eye on the draft."

He nudges me, and I muster a small smile, hoping it masks any concern. The last thing I need is for Luke to sense something's off. I keep telling myself I'm fine, pushing aside any nagging doubts.

"Hey, wanna grab coffee at Scholar's Brew after?"

Luke's suggestion catches me off guard. We're more kitchen raiders than café hoppers. Scholar's Brew isn't our usual hangout.

He chuckles, seeing my surprise, and heads for the showers. "Milli had practice today," he explains under the cascading water. "Just wanna see how she's doing."

I get it. Luke's always been the protective type, but sometimes it's too much. Milli came here for her own space, her own life. I get the whole sibling protection thing, but there's a line, and sometimes Luke crosses it without realizing.

"Sure, I'll join you," I say, deciding it might help balance things out if we both show up. Maybe it'll feel less like he's hovering and more like friendly support.

"Cool," Luke says, and soon we're walking into Scholar's Brew.

Milli's on the phone, and Luke gives her a wave. I notice she doesn't have a drink, so I silently ask if she wants something. Luke's already at the counter, charming the barista without even trying.

I wait, hoping Milli will catch my eye and let me know if she needs a caffeine fix. It's a small gesture, but sometimes it's these little things that can make a person's day just a bit brighter.

"Really, Sutton, get a room." Payson's voice sharply pierces the air, her stare intensely fixed on Luke as he blatantly flirts with Toriey, the barista. I can't help but let out a chuckle. Caught in the act, Luke spins around only to catch Payson lifting his coffee order right off the counter, a look of both annoyance and a touch of amusement crossing his face.