Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Jackson,” Talon barks at me in the huddle. “Head in the game. We’re not done yet.”
With less than a minute on the clock, and us at the twenty-yard line, it’s not impossible to pull this off, but all the fight in us is gone.
One touchdown. That’s all we need. So close yet still so fucking far away.
We’re this close—this close—to winning the whole damn show, but we’re running on steam.
The bright lights no longer light us up like gods but blind us and highlight our mistakes. Our fumbles. Our missed passes. We should’ve had this in the bag. We almost did.
Then we choked.
Not only did they catch up to our twenty-one-point lead, they’ve annihilated us and have run us ragged ever since. We’ve caught up, but I don’t know if it’s enough to get us over the line.
I don’t want to give up, but my head decides to show its pessimistic side in the face of getting everything I’ve ever wanted for my whole life.
The grass no longer smells like fresh turf but of sweat and failure.
We’ve fought hard, but Denver has fought harder.
The screaming crowd no longer cheers our encouragement but fills our ears with taunts to pull our heads out of our asses.
“We get the ball to Carter,” Talon says. “That’s all we have to do and those championship rings are ours.”
I want to yell it’s what we’ve been trying for two plays already and it ain’t workin’, but I don’t. I listen to my QB, yell “Break” along with everyone else, and take my position in the line of scrimmage. My knees protest, my back tenses, but I can’t think about the pain.
Third down. One minute to go. I yell at myself that we’re still in this, but the pressure breathing down my neck says we’re gonna choke. And once you’re in that mindset, it may as well be game over.
Talon yells “Hut” and I do what I know. That’s all I can do at this point. I slam into Denver’s linebacker and ignore the jolt down my side as we collide.
The amount of hits I’ve taken tonight is no more than I normally would, but each painful twinge, every sore muscle, it reminds me what’s at stake and amplifies in feeling and intensity.
Carter’s taken down. Again.
This is it. Last down. No more chances. We don’t make this play, we truly have lost.
Same plan. Same play.
Only, a single voice yells at the team. “Blue Eighteen.”
Play change where I get in the line of fire to receive the ball.
Holy shit.
Then Talon’s voice repeats the same thing, and I realize we’re more than fucked, because it’s up to me. What in the hell is Talon thinking?
I don’t have time to freak out though.
“Set. Hut.”
Years of training. A lifetime of wishing. My prison. My escape. My love for the game all comes down to this.
My legs push faster than they ever have before. My arms grow muscles I didn’t know I have. I knock everyone in my path down, cross the end zone, and land that pass like my life depends on it.
And when I realize I’ve done it? The world fades away, and I really do sink to my knees and cry.
I don’t have long enough for it to sink in completely when strong arms reach under me and lift me to my feet, and then I’m there, staring into the eyes of the most idiotic quarterback I’ve ever encountered.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yell. Any other game, it would’ve just been another play. You don’t do that in the dang Super Bowl. “Why did you do that?”
“Worked, didn’t it?” He throws his arms around me, and then the rest of the team is there. Yelling, shouting, the deafening screams of the crowd …
We did it? We actually freaking did it.
The field is a blur of activity. I’m attacked from all angles from each of my teammates, and even Carter takes me in a crushing hug.
“Good catch.” He grins.
By the time we’re ushered into the locker rooms to shower and change, the smiles can’t be wiped from our faces, and our spirits couldn’t be higher.
Miller hobbles into the locker room in his civilian clothes and Warriors jacket when we’re almost ready to get out of here, and Talon freezes.
“You’re here,” Talon says, his voice croaky.
The very second game of the season, Miller fell hard and didn’t get back up. Torn hamstring. Six months recovery. It took him out for the entire season, so he’s been at home with his family in New York instead of in Chicago with us.
Miller’s lips quirk. “What, you think I was gonna miss this?”
Talon’s mouth remains agape.
“That’s how you catch flies,” I say and reach over to shut his mouth.
They share a weird bro hug that I can’t be bothered to decipher. All I know is Talon’s been lost without Miller, but right now, I have bigger things to worry about.