Page 113 of Hard to Score

I shuffle back in the pocket. Fulton runs in front of me where I hand the ball off to him. He runs to the right and sells the run as the whole field shifts and follows him. The offensive line holds just as Fulton dodges a tackle and lateral passes it to me. I have a millisecond to glance downfield where Muncy is wide open.

The offensive line breaks. Number fifty-five is barreling down on me as I pull back and let the ball fly the fifteen yards to Muncy.

He catches it, cradling it in his arms as the stadium erupts around us.

But he’s not done.

He turns and runs into a full sprint down the almost wide-open field and crosses into the end zone.

My arms go up to match the referees calling the touchdown, and the roar in the stadium is deafening.

There are hugs and pats on the ass, and I look over to Lonnie and catch his wide grin and the shake of his head over the Pop Warner-like play.

But it worked.

It fucking worked.

And that’s all I keep thinking as we take our time wearing down the play clock. There are thirty-five seconds left and the game clock says twenty.

A simple knee will do it.

We don’t need the extra point after. We just need to take a knee and let the rest of the game clock tick to zero.

And we do.

When Stussy hikes the ball into my hands and I take a knee, the stadium erupts into a frenzy of deafening noise.

We won.

We fucking won, and it was with me at the helm from start to finish.

With me leading this team.

Tears threaten. The mental exhaustion and toll the last seven years have taken on me hits like a ton of bricks. Even when the clock runs out, I sit with the football in one hand, and my elbow on my knee with my head in my hand—and soak it all in.

When my teammates keep slapping me on the back in congratulations, I finally look up at them and then toward the stands. Toward where my dad would sit when I was a kid and watch. I know he’s not going to be there, because he’ll never set foot inside a stadium again, and yet I look out of an old, irrational habit.

And I startle when I see Brexton standing there, unbeknownst to her, right where he would have been. Her grin is huge, and she bounces on her toes in excitement when our eyes meet.

In that moment, there is nothing else on my mind other than hugging her. Not the Raptors’ PR person waiting to guide me, not the media standing by waiting to talk on-air live, not my teammates waiting to relive a play.

It’s just her.

Just the girl I fell in love with all those years ago who’s waiting for me on the sidelines as if she knew just where to be.

I push through the people with, “I’ll be right back,” “one second,” and “I have to do this first,” until I reach Brexton. She squeals as I climb up the rungs of the railing, and all but launches herself into my arms when I’m at the right height.

I give no thought to the cameras or the media or the fans. All I can think about when I press my lips to hers is that she’s here.

That she believes in me.

And that I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

CHAPTER SIXTY

DREW

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE SORE in the morning.” Brexton glances at me over her shoulder where she’s putting food in bowls on the kitchen counter. “You took some hits today.”