When I passed the ball to Cooper, it was a cathartic moment. A total release. Everything was happening without sound around me. All I could do was watch Coop.
Finding a hole in the defense.
Holding onto the ball like his life depended on it.
Running his fast rookie ass off.
And not stopping until he made it into the end zone.
The sound finally returned when I heard the stunned silence of the crowd and the roar of my teammates and coaching staff on the sidelines. They were running towards me at record speed. Cheering wildly.
We'd won the game.
We'd won the fucking game.
And it wasn't because of me or in spite of me. It was a team effort. It was chemistry. It was trust. It was passion. It was a belief that we actually could do it. And while I know that may not be enough to carry us all the way to the big dance this year. It's enough to make me rethink free agency and staying with the New York Nighthawks.
Leadership, trust and chemistry are grown and cultivated. I can't just pick up and go to another team every time I hit a wall. No matter how good the players are on another team. It still would be like starting all over. And I realize that even though I've been with the Nighthawks for almost four years, I'm really just beginning.
* * *
"Saint over here! Amazing win today. Tell us how it feels to finally be getting your rhythm back."
"Oh I've always had my rhythm, we just all danced a little better together today."
My teammates laugh.
I've decided that I'm not going to do any more solo press conferences unless it's league required. That's why I've brought some of my teammates to the table with me. Today that's Cooper and Kimball.
Next.
"Saint, right here. What do you think you need to do to keep up this momentum?"
"Thanks for the question, Jim, but the answer still is the same as usual. Score and win."
Next.
"Saint–"
Brad walks over and whispers in my ear. I've got to wrap this whole thing up. My girl is waiting.
"Last question," I announce.
"Saint, word has it that you have you been strategizing where you might want to land next year since you'll be a free agent. Care to divulge where you might take yourtalentsto next year?"
Debbie downer, Myra Kitch, strikes again. We play an amazing game, pull out a win, and she always has to put a damper on things with her negativity. Never mind that she says the word talents as if it's synonymous with herpes.
"All I'm thinking about is next week's game in D.C. Nothing more, Myra."
I get up to leave.
"Have an awesome day everyone, and direct the rest of your questions to my guys here." I place my hands on their shoulders. "The best players in the game today."
I'm starting to wonder if Myra's problem is that she's always had a thing for me. When I get up to leave she watches me as if the real story is wherever I'm going. Like she's dying to follow me. She packs up her things to leave too, so she obviously has no interest in asking Kimball or Cooper any questions, which is stupid. They were a big part of why we won today.
* * *
I'm already on a high because we beat Texas, in their own house, but that feeling only mushrooms once I see her pretty ass. I have to forcibly restrain myself when she approaches because standing right beside her are four of Carson Financial's finest, including that nutsack Jason. Gah! This royal pain in my butt has been sniffing up her ass so hard lately; it's taking every bit of self control I have not to say something. But I know I can't. I've promised Sabrina that we'd keep things private and professional at work. So why the fuck did she bring her coworkers to my game then?!
