The team was in high spirits after winning another preseason game. As I climbed the stairs to the bus that would take us back to the hotel, I was in the mood to celebrate. I settled into a seat by the window and pulled out my phone to discover several text messages already waiting for me.

Dad: Go Rebels! Next stop, the championship!

I rolled my eyes but smiled nevertheless. I would love for the Rebels to win the championship, but my dad was getting ahead of himself. We had a long road ahead of us, though I appreciated his enthusiasm.

I sent off a quick reply, letting him know I was looking forward to celebrating with him and Bastian. Then I navigated to Bastian’s messages. Six? Oh boy, how much had he had to drink?

The first message was a picture of him and my dad at the stadium, decked out in Rebels gear. They had huge smiles on their faces, and my dad’s arm was draped over Bastian’s shoulder. My face split into a grin at the image of my two favorite men cheering me on. I loved how close they were, and I wondered if my dad would ever have that type of relationship with a man I dated, would ever like anyone I brought home as much as he did my best friend. Dad had always been polite to Seth, but he’d never treated him like he did Bastian—like a son.

Bastian: Way to go, B! See you at your dad’s for chili.

Bastian: If he gives you the recipe, I expect you to share it with your bestie.

Bastian: If you feel like bringing a few autographed pictures or jerseys or footballs, I won’t complain. Colt’s is preferred, but anyone will do.

Bastian: Autographs are great, but I will love you for life if you give me Colt’s number.

Bastian: Just kidding, B. You know I already love you for life.

Stream of consciousness texts weren’t all that unusual for Bastian, but these seemed over-the-top even for him. I laughed and shot back a message with a picture of me in the tunnel before the game.

Me: Colt’s number is 669-844-2743.

I laughed to myself, wondering how long it would take Bastian to puzzle out that the fake phone number I’d sent him spelled “Ugh, as if.” It shouldn’t take too long, considering he’d once given it to a guy in college himself.

Three little dots appeared to indicate he was typing, and I threw my head back and laughed when his next message appeared. It was a picture of him giving the middle-finger salute with both hands, his tongue sticking out.

“Coach is texting with her man,” Damien, better known as DD, said as he took a seat across the aisle from me.

I grinned, amused he would automatically jump to that conclusion. “What makes you think that?” I asked.

“You got that dopey smile girls sometimes get.”

I laughed, entertained by his assessment of the female sex. “I don’t have a man.”

“But you want one,” DD said. He was married with three kids, the type of guy who was passionate about his wife, completely content in his marriage. He assumed everyone wanted to experience that kind of wedded bliss, and the guys often went to him for relationship advice.

“How could I possibly be satisfied with one man, when I have fifty-three?” I teased.

“Damn,” another player said from behind him, throwing his voice low.

There was a chorus of laughter, and the apples of DD’s cheeks rose high, his face pinching into a smile.

“Xavier was right about you,” DD said, and I wondered what he meant. “You really are one of the guys.”

I grinned, knowing there was no higher compliment. And the fact that Xavier had been the one to say it first confirmed what I already knew—he was my ally, my friend. Though most of the guys on the team had been polite, I knew some of them were happier than others about my position on the team. But Xavier, he was always attentive and respectful when I spoke, always eager for my input. He made me feel like a valued member of the Rebels, and that spoke more than any words could say.

Conversations resumed as the rest of the team loaded onto the bus. Most players bypassed the driver without a second glance, but not Colt. He was joking with the man as if they were old friends. Xavier followed on his heels, slapping the driver’s hand and adding a fist bump before inquiring about his family. Even Tristan was polite, greeting the driver briefly before continuing to his seat a few rows behind me.

The driver closed the doors to the bus, said something into his radio, and then we were off. Everyone was talking about the game or their plans for the evening, when the bus suddenly swerved. The tires whomp-whomped on the road, and my body pitched to the side. I clutched my tote, relieved when the driver quickly corrected, bringing us back into the lane.

We drove on for another few minutes, and slowly, I relaxed. The guys were listening to music or talking about the game, and I was looking forward to dinner with Bastian and my dad. We were about ten minutes from the stadium when the bus lurched again.

Several people shouted, and I braced myself on the seat in front of me. The tires screeched as we careened off the side of the road, the bus tumbling out of control. The world outside seemed to move incredibly fast, while inside the bus, time seemed to slow instead. Items floated into the air as if they were weightless. For a moment, life was beautiful, and anything seemed possible.

And then there was the sound of shattering glass and the crunch of metal. My body was slammed against the window.

Everything stopped.

There were grunts of pain and a hiss of the engine. With great effort, I lifted my head, attempting to assess the situation. The driver was unconscious, and a number of players appeared dazed. Fortunately, no one seemed gravely injured.

Tristan was the first to act, pushing himself to a standing position in the now-sideways bus. In that moment, with one foot braced on the side of a seat, he looked like George Washington crossing the Delaware with his army. He was noble and proud—heroic.

“Everyone okay?” His voice was steady and commanding, a calm presence amid the chaos.

There was a muted response, but it was reassuring nevertheless. Especially with the engine still running in the background and the tires spinning eerily. It felt like a scene from a movie, not real life.

“Xavier, go help Coach Blake,” he said. “Colt, check on the driver.” He shouted a few other orders, and I was grateful he’d taken charge. I could sense the others’ relief as well, now that Tristan had taken control.

While several of the linemen attempted to open the emergency hatch, Xavier scrambled over to me.

“You okay?” he asked, giving me a once-over. His eyes lingered on my face, and I reached up to my hairline. When I removed my fingers, they were sticky with blood.

I nodded, even though I felt far from okay. “Are you?”

He shielded his mouth with his arm, coughing as smoke began to fill the bus. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. Considering our bus had just been shaken like a martini, it wasn’t all that surprising.

I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. We were going to get out of here. We had to.

The linemen continued to struggle against the emergency hatch, but my attention was focused on Colt. He was crouching near the driver, placing two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. I saw the moment relief washed over him, and I relaxed, grateful the driver was still alive.

Warm, humid air breezed through the bus, sending the smoke swirling. Tristan and a few others climbed out through the open windows. A moment later, the emergency hatch opened, and Tristan peered in.

“Blake, let’s get you out of there,” Tristan called through the opening.

I shook my head. Tempting as that sounded, I couldn’t leave. Not until my men were safe. “I’m not leaving until everyone else is off the bus safely.”

He glared at me, and even though it was relatively dark, I felt safe with Xavier at my side.

“Blake,” Tristan growled.

“I suggest you get moving. Start with those closest to you,” I said.

He didn’t argue, and I was grateful. I checked on the players nearest to me as Tristan and some of the others worked together to get everyone out safely, including the driver. I waited until the end, wanting to ensure the team made it out before I left.

“Okay, Coach,” Xavier said. “You’re up.”

He helped me over to the escape hatch, keeping his hand firmly on my arm. We scrambled over chairs, and then he hoisted me up to where Tristan was waiting outside. After the smoke-filled cabin, the night air was a relief.

Xavier came through the hatch a moment later, the last man off the bus. Sirens blared in the distance, and the other Rebels bus was stopped not far behind. The coaches were gathered around, assessing the damage, while the other players remained safely on the second bus.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until Xavier stood before me, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “It’s okay, Blake. You’re safe.”

He seemed to gather strength from the act, as if the idea of calming me soothed him. I could feel my limbs relax and my body start to warm. I tried not to think about the effect his touch had on me, simply appreciating the comfort he was offering. I gave myself a moment to collect my strength, but then I knew what I had to do.

“Thank you,” I said quietly before backing away from his touch. As much as I wanted to step into his arms and allow myself to forget, I had a job to do.

With their lights flashing and sirens blaring, the police and paramedics arrived. I waded through the players, noting a few of them were seated on the ground. Some had open cuts, while others held their hands to their heads. The driver remained unconscious, and one of our guys was laid out as well. On the whole, though, everyone seemed relatively unscathed. Considering the wreckage and how bad it could’ve been, we were lucky.

Everything seemed to take hours, and I’d lost all track of time. The other bus drove away, leaving the coaches behind. I gave a statement, answering a number of questions.

Had I seen anything in the road? No, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

Did another vehicle cut us off? Not that I saw.

Did the driver seem tired or distracted? Not that I could tell.

After I had my cut cleaned up by a paramedic, I was cleared to leave. My phone was still on the bus, as were the rest of my belongings, and I wondered if I’d ever get them back. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew my dad and Bastian had to be concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked.

“My phone.” I glanced toward the bus, which was now being loaded onto a tow truck. “I need to call my dad. He’s expecting me for dinner, and he’s going to worry.”

Tristan nodded, pulling his phone from his back pocket. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god.

I quickly typed in my dad’s number, silently willing him to pick up as the phone rang and rang.

“Hello?” Tears trickled down my face, the hot, salty liquid streaking my cheeks. I rarely cried, but the sound of his voice was so comforting after the crash.

“Dad. It’s me. Blake,” I said, drying my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I put my back to Tristan so he wouldn’t see my tears.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked immediately. “Why aren’t you calling me on your phone?”

“I, um, had to borrow a player’s phone. Our bus was in an accident, but I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.” Neither did he. He sounded panicked, and I could hear Bastian in the background asking questions. “Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”

“There’s no need. The team arranged transportation.” I thought I heard someone call my name, and I knew I needed to get back to work. “Look, Dad. I’ve gotta go. I’ll check in later.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” I scuffed the asphalt with the toe of my shoe, scattering little pieces of rubble across the dark surface.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too.” I disconnected the call and straightened before turning to give Tristan his phone.

“Thank you…for everything. You did a great job back there,” I said.

He shrugged as if playing the hero were an everyday occurrence for him. “I did what had to be done. I did what anyone would do.”

“No.” I shook my head. “You were amazing.”

His eyes were intent on mine, his clothes rumpled, his expression troubled. “So were you.”

I huffed. “Um, pretty sure I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not true,” Colt said, slinging his arm over my shoulder. “You ensured everyone else got out safely. You were the last to leave the bus. That takes courage.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t so sure about that. I should’ve leaped into action. I should’ve been directing the escape plan. I was grateful Tristan had taken over, but I felt guilty I’d been so slow to respond.

“How’s the driver?” I asked.

Colt’s smile slipped. “They’re taking him to the hospital. He’s stable, but in serious condition.”

I nodded. “I hope he’s okay.”

Xavier joined us, the three of them huddling around me. I felt safe, protected. And for the first time all night, I wasn’t afraid.

I glanced at each of their faces, my respect for them growing with every passing moment. I knew they worked well together on the field, but tonight, I’d seen a different side of them. They’d banded together in a crisis, working seamlessly to help their team. While Tristan had been the leader, giving orders, both Colt and Xavier had played a vital role in our successful escape.

News crews started to arrive, but I just wanted to go home. I wanted my phone and my bed, and I wanted to forget this whole night had ever happened. Winning the game seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was hard to remember it had only been a few hours since we’d boarded the bus. Then, everyone was happy and healthy, and now we were battered and bruised.

Tyrese’s voice carried over to me, and I couldn’t help overhearing what he said. “And then I kicked open the window and helped everyone escape to safety.”

My eyes widened, my jaw dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Had Tyrese seriously just claimed the role of the hero? Some things were a blur, but I remembered one thing clearly. Tyrese and Quentin had cowered in the back of the bus, keeping to themselves as the other guys worked to secure our freedom.

Colt chuckled, the sound warm and melodious. “That fucker.” I glanced at him and saw he was looking in the direction of Tyrese.

“That liar,” I blurted, feeling indignant on their behalf.

Tristan shrugged. “Enh, let him have his fifteen minutes of fame.”

“He’s taking credit for what you did,” Xavier interjected.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tristan said. “Besides, I don’t want the spotlight. But you can go over if you want.”

“Nah, man. I’m good,” Xavier said, and Colt nodded his agreement.

I marveled at the three of them. They were the leaders of the team, the true heroes. I’d admired them as athletes, but now, I respected them as men. There might be fifty-three players on the team roster, but these three were the most valuable.