We were up by four.
I looked up, and there was still no Ellie.
Cameras swept the stands. Celebrities, families, random crowd shots. No sign of her. No big-screen moment. Nothing.
I couldn’t let my mind dwell on it.
The other team got the ball with four minutes left. They threw a couple of long passes; one was almost intercepted, but they continued to move the ball down close to our end zone. On third down with six yards to go, their quarterback ran for the first down himself.
West was pacing. “Come on,” he muttered. “One stop. Just one.”
They lined up like it was a run then faked it. Quarterback rolled right, but our linebacker read him and came running.
We sacked their quarterback on third down. Now, it was fourth and thirteen. They had no choice but to go for it. The ball snapped, the quarterback scrambled, looking for an open man, but threw it too low.
Incomplete pass.
The crowd went wild. West threw his arms around one of the coaches, nearly knocking over the water table. Everyone was yelling and celebrating, but I couldn’t stop glancing at the suite.
Still empty.
One-twenty left on the clock. They had timeouts. We had the ball. The defense made a huge stop, and now, it was on us.
Coach grabbed West’s shoulder. “Finish it. Ball security. Kill the clock. Win the damn thing.”
We jogged onto the field. I was locked in and ready.
First down—the running back hit the gap for four yards. Nice and steady.
Second down—same play. He spun through the tackle and kept the chains moving. First down.
Timeout.
I took a deep breath. Less than a minute to pull this off.
West wiped the sweat off his face and looked over to me. “We got this.”
We ran down the clock with smart plays and quick throws. West kept his cool, and I kept anyone from crashing the pocket. When it came down to the last play, he found the guy in the end zone like it was nothing.
Touchdown. Game over.
Super Bowl champions.
Confetti fell like it was snowing fucking paper. Bronx ran from the sidelines and launched himself at West. Reportersswarmed. Someone shoved a Gatorade jug. I hugged whoever was closest and let it hit me.
And still, I looked.
After a few minutes, people flooded the field. I saw Dotty first, pushing her way forward like a linebacker. Trent followed behind her, holding Gracie’s hand, trying not to get trampled. My dad shouted my name.
“You did it!” Dotty grabbed my helmet and hugged me hard.
“Where’s Ellie?” I asked.
She pulled back, frowning. “She didn’t show.”
Trent caught up. “Congrats, man!”
“Uncle Sawyer!” Gracie said, hugging my legs.
