Chapter 31
Decker
Never in my life have I let an opponent mentally best me. I train my brain just as hard as I condition my body. I’ve had as many mindset coaches as I’ve had trainers throughout the years. My mind is an impenetrable fortress of focus and determination. Or so I thought.
I didn’t even have the wherewithal to process the words coach spit at us in the locker room. He might have chewed us out, or he might have delivered a motivational speech. Either way, my head is not in the game.
At least not the one being played on the field.
Jaw locked tight, I ignore the bench, desperate to purge the vision of Josephine wearing Greedy Ferguson’s jersey that’s branded in my mind. I sure as hell don’t need another dose of her to send me spiraling.
The two-minute notification comes through my headset, followed by our offensive coach asking Kylian which fullback to send in.
The rest of the team rallied at the half, and K scored on our second possession in the third quarter, running the ball for nearly forty yards on what should have been an impossible route.
Kylian’s gonna flip out when he analyzes the play.
I don’t know what got into him, but he’s been on fucking fire in the second half of this game.
Locke is more solid now, too, although he’s hurting. A few early hits rocked his world. South Chapel came to fucking play.
But this is our field. This is our home. That’s my fucking girl.
We’re down by six. It’s third and inches, and there’s exactly two minutes on the clock.
Kyl’s gonna call a sneak.
I know it. The Sharks know it. I’m already visualizing plowing through their defensive line to lock in the first down.
Which is why I do a metaphorical spit take when Kylian calls a timeout instead.
It’s our last timeout, and we’re down by six with two minutes left to play, which makes it a wasteful, egregious call.
“The fuck?” Kendrick chides, jogging over to me. “Was that Kyl?”
I grunt my confirmation, then chomp down hard on my mouth guard to hold in the string of curses fighting their way out of me.
“Cap.”
“Yeah, Kyl?”
“You gonna come to the sideline?”
Rolling out my shoulders, I bite into my mouth guard again.
“Just call the play and let me finish this,” I counter without so much of a glance his way. I don’t need to see the stats on his screens. We both know what needs to happen here.
Besides, I couldn’t go to the sideline even if I needed to consult with him. I can’t stand the thought of catching a glimpse of her right now.
I need to power through. Complete the sneak. Keep possession of the ball. Tuck in the motherfucking South Chapel Sharks and kiss them goodnight.
“You should at least look over here,” Kylian bites out.
He’s still mad at me. Livid, in fact.
I get it. I really do. I’m mad at me, too. But if he thinks for one goddamn second now’s the time—“Dude,” Locke murmurs, coming up on my right side to balance out where K’s flanking me to the left.
Kendrick chuckles under his breath, then whistles appreciatively.
Despite the ironclad grip I’ve been maintaining over my self-control, I break.
With a growl, I follow Kylian’s command and find him on the sideline. He’s watching me, both his devices at his sides, in a stance far too casual for the last two minutes of a game.
Heart in my throat and already silently berating myself, I scan the bench in what feels like slow motion.
My heart drops back into its rightful place and beats double time while my dick springs to life the second I register what I’m looking at.
Josephine. Standing proud. Wearing the number that’s been mine since I was ten years old.
“Kylian,” I croak into the headset. “What number’s on that jersey next to you?”
He tsks, but he plays along.
“You’ve got twenty-twenty vision, Cap. You know she’s wearing number five.”
Pulling his mic from his face, he tilts her way and brings his mouth to her ear like he’s speaking to her. She immediately springs into action, climbs onto the bench, and cups her hands around her mouth to make sure her words reach me.
“Let’s fucking go, number five!”
Let’s. Fucking. Go.
I can’t fight the grin that erupts on my face. I don’t even care that both Kendrick and Locke instantly hound me, punching into my pads and running their mouths.
Her grin matches mine, and in that moment, as my team rallies around me and the Sharks continue to circle, as the band erupts into the fight song in the stands and the crowd chants “Crusade,” all I see, all I want—my entire purpose in this life—is her.
Josephine.
In Crusaders’ red.
Wearing number 5.
With Crusade across her back.
My Siren.
That’s my fucking girl.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I scream, shoving my teammates and rallying the fucking troops. We have a game to finish. We have a game to win.
“Spoon check, brother,” I murmur to Kendrick.
This’ll only work if he’s got a full drawer.
“I’m good,” he assures me. “Whatever you need, I got you.”
“Kylian,” I bark into the headset. “Call Nacho.”
Silence ensues for exactly one second.
Then coaches start talking over each other, all in opposition to my request as the offensive line makes their way back to the line of scrimmage.
I line up with Kendrick by my side, more confident than I’ve felt the entire game. Maybe more confident than I’ve felt during any game, ever.
“Stats support the sneak,” Kylian advises, just like I knew he would. It’s how his mind works. There’s a clear, statistically supported call for this situation.
“I hear you, Kyl. I do.” I can’t criticize him for pointing it out. “But you and I both know something the stats don’t know.”
Despite how black and white he can be, Josephine’s opened him up to a world of color over the last several weeks. He feels it. He knows what seeing her in my jersey fucking does to me, and he knows what I can fucking do in turn for this team.
Kendrick’s on board.
Locke is keyed in.
I won’t settle for anything less than a nontraditional quarterback sneak that results in me scoring on this field.
I want the touchdown.
I want to fucking end this.
I want her in my arms.
I just want her.
“Roger that. Nacho, fake cheese spread,” Kylian calls into the headset.
Clenching my fist in anticipatory victory, I call over my shoulder to number twenty-four. “Get us there, K. I want to get our girl home.”
“Aye, aye, Cap. Let’s fucking go!”
My guys fan out in a spread, confusing the shit out of the Sharks as they scramble to reconfigure their big set formation.
I call us up.
The ball snaps.
The pebbled leather sits perfectly in my hands as I take a step back, and then another.
I know the route I want. Players part, and I fucking swear the sun beams down on it, guiding me forward. Kendrick side-steps to divert one of the Sharks’ biggest linebackers.
I pump-fake, then spin out of the pocket.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I cry as I chase Kendrick, his big-ass body working overtime as my lead blocking back.
So often football is a mental game. A game of awareness. A game of control—knowing who’s positioned where, ferreting out the opponent’s weaknesses, searching for their blind side. There’s a hell of a lot of strategy that goes into the sport.
But on rare occasion, it’s not a game at all. It’s a feeling. An emotion. A collection of sensations and commotion, all swirling together into surreal kismet alignment.
I feel like I’m taking flight and flying down the field.
Nothing can match the roar of the crowd punctuating the whoosh of my pulse in my ears.
I love this game. I love winning.
As I follow K into the end zone, running the ball in and scoring the touchdown we need, the realization hits me like a three-hundred-pound defensive end.
I’ve never felt anything that touches my soul and lights up my insides the way football does—until her.