Chapter 23 #2
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. He’s right and we both know it.
Our defense holds Kansas City to a three-and-out, and suddenly it’s time.
I pull my helmet on, tightening the chinstrap as I jog onto the field.
The crowd noise swells around me, but I filter it out, focusing only on the task at hand.
Eleven men against eleven men. Move the ball. Score points. Win the game.
Simple.
I settle into the huddle, calling the first play with practiced authority. “Strong right, Z-cross on two. Ready…brEAK!”
The huddle breaks and I settle under center, scanning the defense. Kansas City’s showing a blitz, which is exactly what we expected. I make the protection call, shifting our blocking scheme, my mind crystal clear now and laser-focused on the task at hand.
“Omaha! Omaha! Set…hut, HUT!”
The ball snaps into my hands and everything narrows to pure instinct.
The weight of the ball, the timing of the routes, the pressure coming from my blind side.
I hit my third step, plant, and fire a bullet to Jake cutting across the middle.
He snags it cleanly and turns up field for a twelve-yard gain.
First down.
Let’s fucking go!
The crowd roars its approval, but I’m already focused on the next play. We establish a rhythm quickly. Short passes and a few runs to keep the defense honest, methodically moving up field. I’m in the zone, reading coverages, adjusting at the line. This is what I do. This is what I excel at.
This is who I am.
Between plays, my eyes drift to Section 112. They’re just quick glances, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention. Each time I see her—leaning forward in her seat, eyes tracking my every move—something in my chest tightens.
“Focus, Haynes,” I mutter to myself as I call the next play. We’re in the red zone now, eight yards from the end zone. Third down. The perfect time for the play we’ve been setting up all drive.
I approach the line, scanning Kansas City’s defense. They’re showing exactly what I want to see.
I bite back a smile and then reel in my emotions before calling the next play. “Blue eighty! Blue eighty! SET! HUT!”
The ball snaps into my hands. I drop back three steps, eyes downfield, watching the play develop exactly as designed.
The safety bites on Boone’s inside, leaving the corner wide open.
I step into the throw, releasing a perfect spiral that drops right into Boone’s waiting hands in the back corner of the end zone.
Touchdown!
The stadium erupts and I pump my fist, jogging toward the sideline as my teammates mob Boone in celebration. Coach gives me a nod as I pass. It’s the closest thing to approval he ever shows during a game.
“Nice read,” he says gruffly.
I look toward the stands again, unable to help myself, and find Sutton on her feet, cheering. She’s not screaming like the other fans, but her eyes are locked on me, and even from this distance, I can see a smile on her face. That smile is better than the roar of the entire stadium.
I want so badly to motion to her that that touchdown was for her.
That I’m out here today playing hard for her.
I mean, yeah, I know this is my job, but the fact she showed up to watch me play today means more to me than she’ll ever know and I want to give her the best game I can play.
I know she doesn’t want all the attention on her, though, so I keep my hands to myself and try my hardest not to make the day awkward for her.
When we’re finally in the fourth quarter, the game is tied at fourteen.
Our defense forces another punt and I’m back on my feet, helmet in hand, ready to go again.
This time I keep my eyes on the field, on my teammates, and on the opposing defense.
I can feel Sutton’s presence in the stadium like a physical pull, but I resist looking up.
“Same intensity, same execution,” I tell the huddle as we gather together. “Let’s bag this up and go home, gentlemen.”
We march down the field again, mixing runs with short, high-percentage passes that keep the chains moving.
The crowd is with us every step, that electric energy feeding into our momentum.
We’re firing on all cylinders now, the offensive line giving me clean pockets, receivers finding the seams in coverage, running backs hitting the holes with authority. This is our game to lose.
The ball is on their forty-two when I step up to the line, flexing my fingers once before settling them under center. The turf is solid beneath my cleats, the familiar grit grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.
“Blue eighty… blue eighty…” My voice cuts clean through the noise, steady and practiced.
The line shifts on command, helmets dipping, bodies adjusting.
I scan the defense, watching the way they’re set.
A linebacker creeping a little too far left, a safety hanging back like he’s waiting for me to make the first mistake. I clock the coverage and do the math.
A run would be safer.
Coach would want to be safe.
But I don’t.
Because safe doesn’t win this game.
Because safe doesn’t prove anything.
Knowing just where to look, I glance up at where I know Sutton is seated, her hands wrapped around the railing, her eyes watching every move I make like she knows exactly what I’m about to do.
“Set—”
I pause, adjusting the play in my head. There’s a window here. It’s small and it’s fucking risky, but it’s there.
And I want it.
I want the throw.
I want the yardage.
I want the moment.
“Set, hut!”
The ball snaps into my hands. I drop back—one, two, three—clean footwork, smooth and controlled. The pocket forms around me exactly like it should, my line holding strong, giving me time, and then it collapses before I’m ready.
I feel it before I see it. The pressure folding in from the left, a split-second shift in the line that shouldn’t be happening.
Fuck!
Someone missed their block.
I should throw it away. I know I should, but I don’t because I see the break open downfield. Because I’ve got half a second more.
Because I’ve got something to prove.
So, I hold onto the ball.
And that’s my big mistake.
A wall of muscle slams into me from my blindside, driving straight through my ribs. My feet leave the turf and my helmet snaps back and then there’s nothing.
No air.
No sound.
No color.
I hit the ground hard enough it rattles through my bones, and suddenly my body forgets how to breathe.
Shit.
My chest locks up as my lungs empty, like someone reached inside me and just…
hit the power button. I can hear a whistle somewhere far away.
Teammates shouting, footsteps pounding toward me, but it’s all muffled and distant.
My vision blurs at the edges and I try to pick my head up to see what happened.
“Haynes! Stay down!”
Hands are on me, helmets crowding my line of sight. I don’t respond, mainly because I can’t. I can’t get a damn breath in no matter how hard I try. Panic claws up my throat, sharp and fast.
Not here.
Not now.
“Talk to me, Shep.” Sebastian’s voice is calm with the subtle hint of brotherly panic. I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but nothing comes out.
My chest burns and my fingers twitch against the turf and then the noise fades again. Not the stadium noise, but everything else, because my focus locks onto one thing. One person.
I turn my head slow and heavy. It feels like I’m moving through deep water but I find her. Sutton. She’s on her feet next to my brothers, her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes are wide—too wide—like she’s already bracing for something worse.
I’m okay!
Sutton I’m okay!
I can’t get the words to come out of my mouth, but when I see her wipe her cheek with the palm of her hand something inside me snaps.
It’s not fear.
It’s not pain.
It’s sheer will.
I can’t be the thing that breaks for her.
I can’t be the person that breaks her.
I can’t be the reason she shatters.
“Ssss…” I try to say her name, but it all comes out a fucking mumbled mess.
“It’s okay, Shep. You took a hit,” Seb tells me. “You’re going to be fine. Just lie still and don’t move.”
Fuck that.
I need her to know I’m okay.
“Ssssutt-Ssutton.”
I force my hand to move. It feels like I’m dragging it through concrete, but I manage it just enough to lift it off the turf. I give her the only hand gesture I can think of at the moment…followed by the easiest one I can manage.
I love you.
I’m okay.
It’s a lie. Not the I-love-you, but the I’m-okay because I’m anything but okay. I can’t fucking breathe, my ribs feel like they’ve been crushed, and my head’s still ringing.
But I can’t let her see that.
Her shoulders hitch, like she’s trying to inhale for both of us. The trainers are talking to me, asking questions, their hands pressing against my chest and my shoulder.
“Stay down, okay? Just stay down.”
No.
No, I can’t.
Because she’s still looking at me like that.
Like I might not get back up.
“I’m—” My voice comes out rough and useless. I cough, sucking in a shallow, painful breath that barely counts.
“Easy,” one of the trainers says. “Don’t push it.”
I shake my head or at least I try to. “She’s watching,” I rasp.
They don’t understand. Of course they don’t.
But I do.
I push against the turf, forcing my body to cooperate. My arms shake under the weight, my core screaming in protest. Air finally rushes into my lungs in a sharp, brutal inhale. Pain follows right behind it, but I welcome the pain.
Pain means I’m still here.
“Haynes, don’t—”
Too late.
I get a knee under me. The stadium noise starts to creep back in, low at first, like a distant hum, and then it crescendos louder and louder.
I rise up, every muscle in my body protesting.
My ribs ache and my head spins for half a second, but I lock it down, forcing myself steady.
And then I’m standing. The crowd erupts and it hits all at once, the cheers, the shouting, the roar of tens of thousands of people losing their damn minds.
But I don’t look at them.
I only look at her.
Sutton’s still frozen, still watching me like she doesn’t quite believe it, so I give her a real nod this time. Stronger and steadier.
I’ve got this.
Her hands drop slowly from her face and something in my chest loosens.
That’s all I needed.
The ref is already resetting the ball. Coach is shouting from the sideline, and I’m forced to sit out for at least one play. Seb will tell me to sit out the rest of the game but that’s not fucking happening.
“Make it quick, fellas,” I tell them once we’re under the tent. “I’ve got a game to finish.”
Sebastian, who has been by my side the entire time rolls his eyes. “Right. Like you’re going to finish the game.”
“Fucking right I’m going to finish the game. I’m going to finish this push down the field if you guys will just let me go.”
“Shepherd, you took a nasty ass blitz out there. Your ribs are going to be heavily bruised if not cracked. You’re out of your damn mind.”
I shake my head and move my body from side to side, refusing to wince at the pain. “See? I’m fine. I can move just fine. My ribs are fine. Everything is fine. I’m good. I promise.”
The medics run through their customary list of check points, making me feel like a car in for an oil change, and then they finally advise me to sit out and let second string handle the game.
“Sorry gentlemen. I’ve got a job to do and I’m going to fucking do it.”
“Shepherd, you don’t have to prove anything to Sutton. She saw you get hurt. She knows you’re injured.” Sebastian crosses his arm, berating me like he knows best.
“Thanks for the support, Dad, but I said I’m good and I’m going in.”
“Then we’re doing a full evaluation at the next turn over or end of this game. Whichever comes first.”
“Deal.”
It’s third and twenty-five when I jog back into position, taking every breath I can to force my body back into submission. The huddle forms around me, guys clapping my helmet, asking if I’m good.
“Yeah,” I say, voice still rough but solid enough. “Let’s run it.”
They hesitate but I don’t. I call the play and we break. Back under center, I roll my shoulders once, ignoring the ache and lingering tightness in my chest. The ball snaps and everything narrows. There’s no pain, no noise. Just the game.
The pocket forms, better this time, and I step into it.
Waiting there with my hold, I see Jake cut across the middle toward the endzone.
I know I’m about to get hit again. I feel it coming, pressure closing in fast, but it doesn’t matter.
I plant my feet and release the ball, grunting loudly through the pain as my body shifts positions.
The pass spirals perfectly into Jake’s hands for the last touchdown of the game.
The stadium explodes as teammates rush me, grabbing my shoulders, shouting in my face, but I don’t celebrate with them.
Not before I turn and find my girl in the stands.
When her eyes lock with mine, I tap my heart twice and then point to her, not giving two fucks who might be watching.
She smiles as Killian shakes his head at me like I’ve lost my marbles for continuing to play after that hit.
But I don’t care what happened to me.
I don’t care that I’ll be feeling that hit for the next week because Sutton’s smile is wide and bright and being the one to put that smile on her face makes every ounce of pain worth it.
She’s my why.
She’s always been the reason.
Even when I didn’t know it.
Even when I didn’t want to admit it.
Even when I didn’t understand it myself.
Now?
Yeah.
Now I do.
Everything I will ever do from here on out will be for her.
Because she’s my girl.
She’s my everything.