A shrill note sounds, signaling the end of the play. I let the whistle fall back to my chest and jog out to the middle of the Glen Springs' Mustangs neglected practice field. The grass is a little overgrown, and some of it is turning an ugly yellow color. The white hashmarks are faded—the thirty needs to be completely repainted—and one of the spotlights has a tendency to flicker, but in my eyes, this place is the absolute best place to play football.

"Good hustle," I tell the JV guys, clapping the shoulder pads of the receiver who just barely missed what would've been an incredible catch. "Let's tighten up that route and we'll get it next time."

He nods, the sun glinting off his white helmet. I wave the QB over, a young woman who's the first to join GSH's previously all-boys team. She had some trouble fitting in at first, but between Jake and I—and her own strength of spirit—she's grown into a confident and capable leader.

"I know, I know. I need to end the throw closer to my body," she says after spitting out her mouthguard.

"Only if you actually want to hit the intended receiver."

"You really think that'd help? Seems like a pretty radical idea, Coach."

I'm already walking away, too much on my mind to fully answer her sass, but I spin to respond anyway. "It might!"

I give some pointers to the linemen and a couple of the defenders, then scan the sidelines, finally spotting my brother.

"All right," I call, loud enough so everyone can hear me, "the Other Morrison is going to handle the rest of practice. Go easy on him; he still doesn't actually know what a holding penalty is."

The team forms up at the line of scrimmage and I jog off to the sidelines to greet my brother.

"Sorry! I got tied up by something."

"Something, or someone?" I ask with a knowing smirk.

Jake rolls his eyes, but the little flush in his cheeks tells me I'm on the right track. "Aren't you supposed to be on the road soon?"

"Yep. I’ll have to tease you about David later." I nod toward the field. "They should be good to run scrimmages for the rest of practice, but call me if anything comes up, all right?"

"You mean if Riley insists it's totally okay for the quarterback to tackle people again? Gotcha."

I grin in memory, not really envying Jake the task of standing up to the little spitfire. But he'll manage it. He always does.

"Good luck today," he calls as I head off toward the parking lot.

"Thanks, we'll let you know how it goes."

By the time I reach my car—I still can't bring myself to buy a truck—the dash reads 11:07. I'm a little late, but I know I can make up speed on Glen Springs' long stretches of country highway.

As I drive, I can't help but think about what's waiting for me. I love my job. Not just the fact that I get to coach the football teams, but that I’m teaching PE, too. I don't know why I never thought about how rewarding it would be to work with kids—to foster a genuine love of the sport in them, but it's by far one of the most fulfilling things I've ever done and I'm so grateful that Jake put in a good word in for me.

I'm not bothered by the need to duck out early today, though, especially since I know the kids understand. They'd all come with me if they could. Fortunately, today it's just going to be me, Shane, and the horse he's been contracted to ride, Hero’s Gambit.

The race is in a town a couple hours away from Glen Springs, set to start at two. I pull into the parking lot at the track right before one, just like I'd planned, and immediately head toward the back where I know Shane's getting ready.

I find him stretching, my body responding in the most inappropriate way as I watch him lean into some pretty damn impressive lunges, the muscles in his ass flexing.

"If the goal is to distract the competition, you've definitely got this thing in the bag."

He laughs, stretching out his thigh one last time before he walks over to give me a kiss.

"How was practice?" he asks.

"Kids haven't burned anything down. Yet."

"Oh, good. At least it'll be Jake’s fault now," he says casually.

A grin tugs at my lips. "Exactly."

He takes me to the holding pens to show me the horse he's riding, a sleek black mare that's even younger than Apollo and apparently just as ornery.

"Shame she's not available for breeding," I say. "They could make beautiful, pain-in-the-ass babies."

Shane laughs, but it's something we've considered before. Not pain-in-the-ass babies—or ponies—exactly, but finding a companion for Apollo. He's still a little high strung, even if he's starting to realize he's living the high life now. A little more TLC and Shane thinks he'll be ready to rotate into the therapy riding program we've since made official.

"Excuse me," I hear someone say from behind us. When I turn to look, I see a young man who can't be much older than eighteen. "Are you Shane McMillan?"

"I am," he says, and I smile as I watch him interact with an obviously starstruck fellow jockey.

That happens a lot lately. At first Shane was cynical, thinking people would only remember him for his accident. But no one's even mentioned it, and owners have been tripping over themselves to get him as a rider, even for these small, amateur races. He's been slow to adjust to it, but I think he's coming around to the fact that he's a hot commodity—and an insanely skilled rider.

The kid asks Shane to autograph his helmet, of all things, and I'm all too happy to dig out a Sharpie. With the race starting soon, I have to head to the fence and Shane and Gambit have to take their place behind the starting gate.

I pull out my phone, ready to record the race for Jake. He hates missing them, but neither of us want to let the kids down.

I stand, breathless with anticipation, and listen to the sound of excited whinnies and impatient stamping. When the gun sounds, my heart kicks into a rhythm to match the pounding of hooves on tightly packed dirt as horses and riders speed down the straightaway.

I find Shane easily, and just like every time, he takes my breath away. He looks so natural in that saddle, like he was born to do this. But much more than that, he looks genuinely happy. And healthy. His form is filled out by lean muscle still; a result of us signing him up for races without such tight weight limits. Part of a long and careful lead-up to make sure he could return to racing without all the baggage from before.

I keep my phone held high, not bothering to try and keep up with the blur that is Shane. He pulls away from the pack after the first turn, but he doesn't push the horse to go any faster—just maintains a deceptively small lead.

As they reach the final stretch, I grin with a giddy sort of excitement, waiting for my favorite part. Just like I expect, Shane waits until the very last moment when two other riders are gaining on him to urge his horse into a blazing fast gallop, putting on a burst of speed that pulls him two full lengths ahead of anyone else by the time he crosses the finish line.

I cheer loudly, and I'm not the only one. The people who follow these small races have caught on to the fact that Shane is the best jockey by far. They love watching him win, and so too do the local papers and blogs that swarm him as he walks Gambit in a cool-down.

I head that way, watching with pride as they snap pictures and ask Shane questions. He's breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his skin, but he's got the brightest smile on his face, and it's absolutely infectious.

I wait patiently, knowing how many people want a turn with him. Every now and again someone at these tracks will recognize me, but for the most part I'm just the supportive spouse—and so damn pleased to be one.

Because at the end of the day, when the dust clears and the fans and reporters move on, I'm there to welcome Shane with open arms, literally and figuratively.

I do so now, wrapping him up in a fierce hug and kissing him without an ounce of shame.

"That was amazing," I tell him.

"It felt amazing."

I know this high of his will last through the night, and I definitely plan to take advantage of it later. What can I say? I love the feeling of being pinned down and ridden by a winner.

But for now, I stand at his side while he talks to the owner and makes plans for the next race and beyond. He looks to me, smiles, and an unspoken promise passes between us.

No matter what we're tackling, no matter how insurmountable it seems, we'll cross that finish line.

Together.