Chapter One
Carter Storm
Quarterback
The crisp air of Bismarck cuts through the tension, carrying the tang of freshly churned turf. Cleats sink into the grass, every muscle coiled and ready. The stadium roars around, but the sound is distant, muffled, almost underwater. Only the heartbeat matters now. One thump, two thumps… racing out of control. The scoreboard glares down at me:Dragons 27, Titans 27.Time’s almost gone. One final drive. One shot. One play. That’s it. No do-overs. No miracle except the one I have to make happen myself.
Glancing at the sidelines, Coach Fitzgerald’s jaw is tight, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the field like he’s reading some secret playbook only he can see. Mason Spencer, my quarterback coach, has that half-smile he always wears when I’m about to do something insane. Derek “Thunder” Johnson pumps his fist like he’s trying to transfer his energy to me.
Marcus “Maverick” Williams adjusts his gloves, nods at me, and whispers, “We got you, man.”
I swallow hard. At thirty-seven years old, I’m still standing, despite hail, wind, broken ribs, and more concussions than should be humanly possible. Plays under pressure aren’t new—but this… this is the kind of moment that defines careers. Or ends them.
The ball is snapped. I take the holder’s hands and nod, feeling the leather against my palms. Tyler “Tank” Anderson is in front of me, crouched like a mountain, ready to block anything that comes my way. Jordan “Blitz” Ramirez is grinning from the sideline, arms crossed, probably betting I’ll pull off a miracle.
“C’mon, Carter,” I mutter under my breath. “You’ve kicked through worse.”
The wind whips across the field, cold enough to sting my cheeks. I measure it, feel its direction, the slight curve from right to left. My mind calculates: 38 yards. That’s doable. My leg is ready. My body knows the motion. The timing. I’ve done this a thousand times in practice, and yet… this is different. Pressure doesn’t exist like this in practice. This is all or nothing. Win or lose.
Legacy.
The holder drops to one knee. My foot meets the turf. I hear the snap—sharp, quick, perfect. I plant my foot. Time slows. Everything slows.
And then… chaos.
The line explodes. Titans’ defenders barrel toward me, shapes blurring. Tank is a wall of muscle in front of me, arms extended, feet pounding. Derek is breaking toward the sideline, ready to help redirect if I need a lateral. Marcus is sprinting, eyes on the goal line.
I exhale. Focus. Clear my head. Ignore the sound. Ignore the screams.
I swing my leg.
The ball leaves my foot.
It spins in the air, perfect spiral. I follow it with my eyes, heart hammering. Time slows again. The ball curves. The wind… I miscalculated slightly, maybe. Or maybe it’s perfect. I can’t tell.
“Go!” I shout, though no one hears me.
The Titans’ line surges, and I duck instinctively. A defender grazes my shoulder. Pain flares but doesn’t stop me. I stay on my feet. My eyes track the ball as it arcs higher, heading toward the goalposts.
The roar from the crowd is deafening now, a tidal wave of sound. My teammates are shouting, running, waving, fists in theair. But I don’t look at them. I can’t. My entire focus is on that leather missile, spinning through the cold night air.
I think of every second that led to this moment: long practices, brutal workouts, injuries that should have ended me, games I thought I’d never play again.
The ball hits the crossbar. My stomach flips. A groan rumbles through the crowd. Tank throws his hands in the air. Jordan punches the turf in frustration.
The ball… hangs.
Spinning. Teetering. The air holding it, teasing it, mocking me.
I can’t see if it’s in. Can’t see if it’s out. My brain wants to scream, to run, to tear the turf from under my cleats and fix it myself, but I know I can’t.
Ican’t.
All I can do is stand here, body trembling, heart hammering, chest tight, waiting for that impossible, glorious, terrifying second when the universe decides.
The referee’s arms… slowly rise.
Wait. What?
