I never believed in ghosts until I saw the man i
n the green jersey walking through Lambeau Field
at midnight. He looked like a player from the 1
940s, all leather and grit, eyes fixed on the ol
d scoreboard. That was when I remembered—my name
isn’t just Cole Hayes. It’s also the name of a
dead quarterback who vanished during the war.
I’ve been running from that truth for years. My
career as an NFL linebacker ended when I started
seeing things no one else could. The league cal
led it a mental breakdown. I called it a warning
.
Now I’m back in Green Bay, chasing a lead on a m
issing tech billionaire who bought up the old st
adium land. His last message was cryptic: “The g
host still plays.”
The first thing I saw when I walked into the Rus
ty Rail was the piano player. He was playing a t
une I didn’t recognize, but the notes made my ch
est ache. The bar was packed with locals, all sw
aying to the music, none of them noticing the ma
n in the corner booth—same green jersey, same ha
unted look.
“Cole Hayes,” a voice said behind me. I turned t
o see a woman in her late forties, sharpeyed and
dressed like she owned the place. “You’re not f
rom here.”
“I’m not from anywhere anymore,” I said, sliding
into the booth across from the ghost.
She leaned in. “You’re not here for the ghosts.
You’re here for the money.”
Her name was Evelyn Cross, and she was the owner
of the Rusty Rail. She knew about the billionai
re—Victor Langford, who’d gone silent three week
s ago. She also knew he’d been digging into the
history of the Packers, specifically the 1943 se
ason.
“I think he found something,” she said. “Somethi
ng that doesn’t want to be found.”
I followed her out into the rainslick streets, t
he ghost still trailing me like a shadow. She le
d me to a warehouse on the edge of town, its win
dows boarded up, its sign long faded. Inside, th
e air was thick with dust and secrets.
Langford’s files were spread out on a table, map
s and newspaper clippings detailing the 1943 Pac
kers season. There was a photo of the team, and
there—next to the quarterback—was a man with my
face.
Evelyn pointed at it. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
I stared at the image. The man in the photo had
the same scar above his brow, the same smirk. Bu
t he was alive then. I was alive then. Or so I t
hought.
“This isn’t possible,” I muttered.
“It is,” she said. “You were a player back then.
You disappeared during the war. They thought yo
u died in a crash. But you didn’t. You came back
…
changed.”
The ghost materialized beside me, his eyes glowi
ng faintly. “You left me behind,” he said. “I co
uldn’t move on.”
I took a step back. “You’re not real.”
“I am,” he said. “And I’m not the only one.”
The next night, I went back to the field alone.
The ghost stood beside me, silent now. I traced
my fingers over the old turf, feeling the weight
of decades pressing down on me.
Then I heard the footsteps.
Three men in dark suits emerged from the shadows
, their faces hidden beneath hoods. One of them
held a phone, speaking quickly into it. “We’ve g
ot him. The ghost’s here.”
I tensed. “Who are you?”
“Langford’s people,” one said. “He wanted you pr
otected. Now we’re here to make sure you don’t r
un again.”
The ghost stepped forward, his presence making t
he air hum. The men froze.
“You’re not the only one who sees ghosts,” I sai
d. “But you’re not the ones who brought them bac
k.”
One of them reached for a gun. The ghost moved f
aster. A flash of light, a crack of energy—and t
he man was thrown backward, unconscious.
The others ran.
I turned to the ghost. “What happened to you?”
He looked at me, the sorrow in his eyes deep. “Y
ou left me behind. I waited for you to come back
.”
I knelt, touching his hand. “I’m here now.”
He smiled, and then he was gone.
Evelyn showed up later, watching me from the sha
dows. “You did what he couldn’t,” she said. “You
finished the game.”
I looked at the scoreboard, where the numbers bl
inked 1943. For the first time in years, I felt
whole.
The billionaire wasn’t missing—he was waiting fo
r me to remember. And now, I was ready to play.
