Mireya stepped out of the short hallway, tightening the knot in her tank so it sat high on her hip. The shirt was Georgia Southern white and navy, the one she’d grabbed at the campus store the last time she was in town. She’d pulled it over to the side and tied it so it cropped above her waist. The cotton showed the smooth line of her stomach when she moved. Her shorts were cut even higher, pale denim with the hem frayed, hugging the tops of her thighs.
The AC in Caine’s place hummed low. The TV in the corner was on mute, some daytime thing rolling without sound, light flickering over the couch.
On the rug, Camila was on her knees in front of Sara, curls out, wearing one of the little tees Mireya had packed. She was holding up the small plastic toy horse she’d left here after her birthday . The paint on the mane had chipped, but Camila treated it like it was brand new.
“No, look,” Camila said, voice high. “It do this.”
She pressed her thumb down on the back where the button was half-broken. The horse tried to whinny. It came out squeaky and short and its head bobbed. Camila broke into a laugh that rolled through her whole body. Sara laughed too, eyes crinkling, elbow on her knee.
“That the one you made him go all over the house looking for?” Sara asked her.
Camila nodded hard. “It was here,” she said, pointing under the couch. “Right there.”
Mireya took them in for a second. Her daughter on Caine’s rug. Caine’s mother on Caine’s couch. She pushed her hair back over her shoulder and said, “Y’all ready?”
Sara looked up first. Her eyes did that fast mama scan. When she got to the tank and the knot and then the shorts, her gaze slowed. She nodded once and turned to Camila.
“You ready to go see your daddy play football, mi amor?” she asked, voice warm like it always got for Camila.
Camila’s whole face jumped. “Yes!” she said, almost dropping the toy. “Daddy! Daddy!” She scrambled up and ran toward the door, feet slapping from rug to linoleum. She had to hop to reach the handle.
“Hold on, mamas,” Mireya said, already moving. “We going together.”
Sara stood. “Let me grab my bag,” she said.
They stepped out into the outside hallway. Heat met them even under the shade. The air smelled like sun on wood and somebody’s laundry down below.
Camila shot ahead down the walkway, toy horse swinging from her hand. The sun hit her curls and turned them copper at the edges. Her voice came out in a little song that didn’t bother with a real melody.
“See Daddy, see Daddy, see Daddy,” she sang, feet doing a crooked skip toward the stairs.
Mireya watched long enough to make sure the concrete that she didn’t get close to the lot. Then she started after her. Sara fell in beside her.
That was when Sara did it. The once-over. The kind that noticed. Her eyes ran from the tied tank to the flat cut of Mireya’s stomach and down over the line of her thighs.
“What?” Mireya said, eyebrows pulling. Her hand went to the knot like maybe it had come loose.
Sara didn’t answer right away. She reached instead. Her palm was warm from the apartment. She laid it right on the strip of Mireya’s stomach the shirt had left out. Her thumb pressed there, testing, and then her gaze went down to Mireya’s legs.
“Have you been working out?” Sara said.
Mireya’s mouth tipped. It was the question she’d expected. She rolled her eyes once. “Yeah,” she said, light. “I been running at night.”
Sara gave her a look. “I see it,” she said. “You never really gained the baby weight but damn. I’m jealous.”
Mireya snorted, low and sharp. “Don’t be,” she said.
She opened the back door for Camila to get into the car.
~~~
Caine stepped out into the tunnel and the noise rolled over him in a wall. Paulson wasn’t big but when it filled it felt tight, sound bouncing off concrete and metal, crowd stacked close enough to see faces. Blue and white down both sides. Band punching. North Alabama warming on the other end. Heat rose off the field even though kickoff wasn’t full sun yet. It smelled like grass paint, sweat, and the fryer over by the concourse.
The line of Georgia Southern players crept forward one shoulder at a time. Helmets on. Mouthpieces tucked. Every one of them veered to the right when they hit the opening. The bronze head of Erik Russell sat there like a checkpoint. Each player bent in, facemask to metal. A couple of them tapped twice. One kissed his fingers and touched the top. Caine followed, no hurry. He bent, pressed the crown of his helmet to the bust, let it touch long enough to count, then straightened and fell back into the line.
“Hey, hey, lock in,” Coach Aplin barked from just inside the daylight. It wasn’t angry. It was to cut through the echo. “We talked about it all week. Start fast. Own first down. Let’s go.”
Pads knocked as the backs jostled to the front. A couple of linemen bounced in place, helmets rattling. Someone yelled “Yes sir” from inside the group and it set off a string of shouts. One of the defensive guys hollered somebody’s name. Another one thudded shoulder pads with Caine as he slid past.
Aplin lifted the big blue key, the one they used to lead the team out. He turned it outward to the field and ran. The rest of them surged after him, cleats punching through the turf, sound from the home stands spiking when they saw the team break. The band hit a run. Flags whirled. Caine ran in the middle of it, body steady, eyes already cutting across to the opposite sideline where North Alabama’s defense was clustered. Not nervous. Just clocking everything the way he always did.
…
The sound from the stands thinned when they closed in. Helmets bent together. Caine stood at the center of the huddle, headset crackling in his ear.
“Gun trips right. Slot swap. Sixty-two cross. Z dig. Half-slide left. Alert swing. Don’t hesitate to rip it..”
Caine nodded, even though Fatu couldn’t see it.
He looked around the huddle. “Gun trips right. Slot swap. Sixty-two cross. Z dig. Half-slide left. Alert swing. On one.” His voice cut through. No repeat needed. He pointed at David. “You’re left. Check out if they walk the nickel.”
Helmets bobbed. Trey’Dez, split out for the Z side of the call, reached and tapped his own chest once. “I got it,” he said, breath puffing. Shoulder pads rose and fell.
“Break.”
They clapped out of the huddle and jogged to the ball. The line set first. Caine jogged up into the backfield and drifted to five and a half in the gun. Trips to the field. Tight slot inside. Trey’Dez by himself on the boundary a little reduced so he’d have room to win. David slid to Caine’s left hip, toes pointed at the line, hands ready.
North Alabama showed four down and a walked-up backer to the field. Safety over the top cheated half a step early. That made Caine’s eyes flick there. He gave a quick “easy, easy” and lifted his foot to reset the cadence. Chandler looked back through his legs and nodded.
“Set. Set.”
Nobody bailed. The nickel looked greedy but not coming yet. Good. Half-slide left would catch it either way. Caine dropped his eyes to the mike to freeze him.
“White nineteen. White nineteen. Go”
The ball popped into his hands and he rode it high. First step was clean. Second step was back and light. Third step he hit the depth and settled, shoulders already square. The half-slide snapped in front of him. The edge to the right got washed. Field backer widened with the trips just enough. That pulled the hook. Exactly how it had looked all week on the cut-ups in the quarterback room.
Trey’Dez stemmed hard outside, sold fade to grab the corner’s hips, then snapped it off and cut back inside at eighteen. It was there. Window between the settling mike and the safety who had stepped flat-footed.
Caine didn’t hitch. He just let it go.
The ball left his hand on a rope, chest high, twenty yards downfield to Trey’Dez.
…
Caine stood in the shotgun, hands hovering near his chest, mouthguard half against his teeth. Josh was wide right, inside shade on the corner. The play was built for rhythm—curl, one read, ball gone fast.
“Green eighty… green eighty!” Caine called, voice carrying under the hum of the crowd. “Set—go!”
The snap hit his palms clean. He caught it, rolled the ball once, laces finding his fingers as he planted. His eyes flicked to the safety, then back to Josh.
Josh pushed off the line, five hard steps, then dropped his hips and turned on the curl. The corner drifted, half a step slow.
Caine let it fly. The ball ripped forward and found Josh square in the chest at the sixteen. He tucked, spun off the reach of the defender, and drove through the open grass.
Two strides and the goal line was there. Josh crossed upright, ball tight to his ribs.
The noise from the stands swelled sharp and clean. Caine exhaled through his facemask, eyes on Josh handing the ball to the ref before turning back toward him. Linemen met Caine halfway, helmets knocking, first score on the board.
…
Caine stood five yards deep in the gun, gloved hand resting on his thigh pad as he scanned the front. Kenneth Ejiofor was wide left, tight to the numbers. The call had been a quick zone look, but the defense showed press with a single-high safety shading to the trips side. Too heavy to run it.
He lifted his hands and pointed at the line. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” he barked. “Check, check! Check, check! Casino! Casino!”
The linemen reset their feet. David shifted from his right hip to his left. Kenneth gave a small nod, adjusting his split to take the corner one-on-one.
Caine glanced once more at the safety creeping down, then called it fast: “Set—hut!”
The snap came clean. He opened right, rolling behind Dwight as the pocket bent with him. The edge came high, shoulder pad brushing his jersey, but Caine kept drifting, eyes cutting across the field.
Kenneth hit his stem, sold post, then bent it back to the corner. The safety froze inside.
Caine planted hard and threw across his body. The ball jumped from his hand, turning over tight as it arced downfield.
Kenneth tracked it in stride, arms stretching wide. The ball dropped over his shoulder and into his hands. He broke free of the corner’s dive and sprinted into open grass, the crowd already roaring as he crossed midfield.
He didn’t slow until a safety pushed him out inside the twenty. Fifty-seven yards gone.
Caine stopped near the sideline, helmet turning toward the field, pointing at the nearest North Alabama player and waving his hand in front of his face.
…
Caine sprinted the offense to the line, ball set at the forty-one, clock running. No timeout. The sideline was waving but he was already moving.
“Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!!” he shouted, voice sharp over the noise. The players knew it—four-verticals, go before the horn. He dropped back into the gun, hands flashing once for the snap. “Go!”
The ball hit his palms. He dropped, one, two, three, eyes cutting deep. Trey’Dez split wide right, pushing vertical off the line. The safety shaded wrong, drifting toward the trips.
Caine planted and ripped it. The ball climbed high, spiral tight against the lights.
Trey’Dez kept running, eyes up, catching it clean over his shoulder at the fifteen. He pulled it in, stumbled once through contact, and lunged through the last defender. The clock hit zero as he crossed the goal line.
Touchdown.
The sideline detonated. Helmets thrown, hands in the air. Caine backpedaled a few steps, both arms raised, shouting through his facemask until teammates mobbed him.
Coach Aplin was already out past the numbers, pointing at him hard, grin wide, then slammed a fist in the air.
Caine met him halfway, bumping shoulders with Dwight on the way, the sound of the crowd folding over them as Georgia Southern ran to the tunnel up big.
…
Caine stood in the gun at the 11, ball slick with heat. Josh was wide left, pressed but with a soft cushion. The call came quick—timing route, rhythm throw.
He scanned once, saw the corner’s feet flat, and knew what he wanted.
“Hut—hut--Go!”
Caine took one step, two, and hit his back foot. His eyes went to the inside shoulder of the corner and stayed there.
Josh drove upfield, four hard steps, then leaned like he was taking it outside. On the next beat he sank low and turned back.
Caine had already let it go. The ball was gone before Josh’s head turned.
It cut through the air and hit him right between the numbers as he came out of the break. The corner reacted a step late, hands flashing at nothing.
Josh planted, spun off contact, and fell forward through the goal line.
Touchdown.
The stands broke in a single rush of sound. Caine took a step back, exhaling once before the linemen hit him from behind, slapping at his helmet. He pointed toward Josh, who lifted the ball once in acknowledgment before jogging off toward the sideline, the scoreboard flashing new numbers behind them.
…
Caine crouched in the gun at the 8, sweat drying in a thin film on his forearms. The defense was already leaning forward, waiting for the handoff.
The snap came clean. Caine opened left, ball pressed into the mesh with David just long enough to pull the linebackers downhill. He flipped his hips and came up throwing.
Trey’Dez slipped behind the traffic, cutting flat across the back of the end zone. The safety saw it too late.
Caine ripped it. The ball came out low and hot, finding Trey’Dez right on the goal line. He caught it clean, pivoted through contact, and dragged a foot before the ref’s arms went up.
The crowd roared, sound bouncing off the concrete overhang. The scoreboard turned over again—56–10. Caine exhaled once through his facemask, grin breaking as his linemen crowded around him.
Then the PA voice rolled through the noise:
“That’s a record, ladies and gentlemen! With that pass, Caine Guerra has 493 yards! A round of applause to our new single-game passing leader!”
The sideline exploded. Helmets slammed against pads. Players pointed back toward the field. Caine jogged toward them, body light, chest still burning from the last drive.
Coach Aplin met him near the numbers, one arm already up. He hooked it around Caine’s shoulder and shook him hard, hand smacking the top of his helmet.
“Good fucking shit, kid!” he yelled over the crowd. “That’s how you make a fucking debut!”
Caine laughed into the noise, nodding once, helmet tipping forward under Aplin’s hand before he let him go.
He pushed through the crowd of teammates, bodies thudding against him as they mobbed him, voices mixing with the band and the PA. He dropped down onto the bench, still catching breath.
A second later Trey’Dez came jogging in from the field, ball in hand, other players right behind him. He stopped in front of Caine and held it out.
Caine took it without a word. The surface was slick from sweat and turf paint, laces rough under his thumb. He turned it once in his hands, crowd noise fading to a hum around him, and just looked at it.
