Perfect catch.
Feet down.
No fumble.
Touchdown Fury.
Ballgame.
Those are my last calm thoughts before I throw my helmet in the air and scream as I run onto the field, straight toward Linc. The noises leaving my mouth can only be described as the combination of banshee and a four-year-old on a Mountain Dew high. My arms are waving around like the inflatable tube men outside of a used car dealership. I'm pretty sure I am becoming a running meme as we speak. But I’ll wear it with a badge of honor knowing what me and my teammates just did.
We made history.
Three championships in four years.
“Holy shit! We fucking won!” I scream as I jump on Linc’s back, nearly taking him down. “You fucking did it, bro! You’re a fucking beast.”
Linc laughs as I detangle myself from his back. “Thanks, but we were able to get that last drive because of the defense. You guys played your asses off tonight.”
We bring each other in for a huge hug, slapping each other on the backs, knowing that it was, in fact, a total team effort tonight.
“Tonight’s celebration is going to be fucking epic!” I yell. “I have a feeling I’m going to remember it for the rest of my life!”
Linc laughs and shakes his head at me as the confetti starts pouring from the ceiling of the stadium we’re playing at in Las Vegas. “Celebrating this kind of win in Vegas, it's the stuff guys dream about.”
I slap his pads. “Hell, yeah, it is. You're coming, right?”
Linc gives me a reassuring nod. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
I knew he wouldn’t. Linc might be in love now—and I mean really, really, in love—but he knows a night like this might be the only one of his career. The man’s been through it in his life; the fact that he’s playing football at all is an achievement. I know he wants to be with his girl, but he also wants to be with us.
Plus, Ainsley’s a good time. I’m sure wherever we end up we’re all going to have a night we’re never going to forget.
Speaking of, we should probably figure out where we’re going tonight. And as the self-appointed president of the Nashville Fury After Party Committee, I feel that it’s my duty to make these plans. Which is what I do mentally as I continue to hug my teammates, grab championship hats and T-shirts from our staff, and do the few on-field interviews I’m pulled in for.
We should probably hit up the stereotypical Las Vegas night club. Some spot that plays primarily EDM that's going to give me a headache for six days on top of the headache I’m going to have for the copious amount of champagne I'm about to consume tonight. I mean, it’s Las Vegas, and we just won the fucking bowl. Of course there’s going to be a DJ and champagne.
But what I really have in mind is something a little bit more us. A little more Fury.
A little more karaoke.
It’s the right way for this team to celebrate. It’s what we do. So, yes, we’re going to put in our time at the club. Make our faces seen. Then, when it’s appropriate, we’re going to head to the real party.
I have three songs ready to go right now.
God, it’s going to be fucking epic. The last few times we won, the parties were fucking sick. Bottles. Dancing. Women. Most at the same time. And those games weren’t in Las Vegas, and they were still out of control.
I can only imagine what tonight’s going to bring.
CHAPTER 2
GABI
I’m thirty-five.
It’s a Sunday night in Vegas, and I’ve already been drunk for three days.
I’m dehydrated, my back hurts, and I really want a bath with Epsom salt for my feet.
