5. Game Day
GAME DAY
Hudson
“Hart, you gots to get up,” Lily’s sweet little voice sounds off before she pounces on my bed.
Her mother ended up extending her spa time, or whatever she was doing, which allowed Lily to stay with her daddy. This means she’s going to be at the game, and she’s super excited. Like super.
“Almost time,”—I smile—“but not quite.” As I open my eyes, I grab her and tickle her little belly. “Time doesn’t start until the alarm goes off, Lily. Girl bosses know this, and you will, too, one day.”
“Imma be a girl bossesess. My new friend, Sydney, my new friend, Riley, gonna be there. They telled me that.”
“Hey, don’t forget your old friends,” comes from the doorway.
I glance up to see my sister, Jillian, standing next to Boone, fake pouting with her arms crossed.
“I not. You and Mama Hart flower’s first friend.” Lily wiggles out of my clutches and legit does a super fly off the bed, damn near giving me a heart attack.
“All right, little flower.” Boone laughs, catching her easily. “Let’s give Hudson some time to wake up; his game day rituals are a little more complex than mine.”
Jillian chuckles. “He’s such a diva.”
“I diva, too?” Lily asks as they walk out of my room.
“You absolutely are.” Boone chuckles as they walk down the hall.
“I be a girl bosseses and diva, Daddy?”
“Darn right, you can,” Jillian answers for him. “Now, how about you and I go pick out our outfits for today and let Daddy focus on his game-day rituals?”
“I come to Mana Hart’s house?”
“Still got a couple hours till we leave for the stadium, flower. After Jillian shows you the coolest little lady Knights gear for today and helps you get ready, we’re gonna eat some breakfast and watch some tapes.”
“Tapes boring, Daddy.” She sighs exaggeratedly, and even though I don’t agree, it’s one hundred and ten percent adorable.
When my seven thirty alarm goes off, Eminem’s “The Way I Am” blasts through my speaker, and my game day begins.
I curl up to a seated position, throw my legs over the side of my bed, slide out, and then walk to the windows facing east.
I didn’t only just buy this house because it was a major flex and I could. Not completely, anyway. I could have lived in Blue Valley, which was the plan, but driving through this town on my way from Syracuse, it just felt like the right place for Linda Hart, the woman who gave us life and showed us love, even when it was really bad at home. I mean, it was always really bad, but we never saw the shit she hid. We didn’t go unscathed; our father was a tyrant who emotionally abused the fuck out of Roman and me, always telling us we’d never be as good as him. We’d never be offered a D1 scholarship to play baseball like he did because we were lazy little shits and didn’t wanna put the work in.
I know Rome got it before I did, but my first recollection of being dragged out of bed to train was in second grade, and I remember the first time we saw him all fucked up, pushing Mom around. I was in grade five, and I was fucking terrified. Then I was pissed. The time between those two emotions was maybe five seconds. Rome’s reaction time was quicker. He was on him like flies on shit, and he still has a scar to prove it.
Our father stopped drinking for a month or so, stopped the physical shit with Mom and us, but double downed on the training.
The next time he got fucked up and went after Mom, Rome was at his first varsity baseball practice. I grabbed a ball bat and swung at an old lamp to get his attention. That worked until I turned my back, and he pushed me through a door.
Mom called the cops that time. The sheriff was one of his buddies, however, so even though Mom kicked his ass out, he came back many times in drunken or drug-induced rages.
Between Rome and I, he never got a chance to lay hands on Mom again, and Jillian, well, he tried to go after her once. She grabbed a bat, but she didn’t swing at a fucking lamp; she swung at him. He grabbed the bat and managed to push it into her stomach. I thought she was dying; she wasn’t breathing. It ended up that he knocked the wind out of her, and as I tried to get her up, he swung it across my back.
Eventually, someone listened, and DCFS stepped in. He got therapy and was diagnosed with some mental illness—IED (intermittent explosive disorder). Some genius in DCFS decided that, and a judge backed them up by giving him supervised visits because “kids need their fathers.”
That day in court, Mom flipped shit and asked who in their right mind would insist children visit their abuser. She dropped an F-bomb, as well, and our mother, a victim herself, was held in contempt of court and arrested—fucking arrested—and taken away, spending a night in jail. We were taken to our grandmother’s, where that fuck showed up for his “supervised visit.”
He spent hours saying he was so sorry and that it wasn’t in his control, and yeah, I felt for him, Jill felt for him. Rome, however, pointed out that his mental illness seemed to worsen when he drank—pissed the old man off, too.
Our mother spent time in jail for defending her kids. How fucked up is it that she spent more time behind bars than he ever did? On top of that, Mom was forced to do a hundred hours of community service, picking trash off the roadside, and the three of us had to go to counseling to teach us how to deal with a person with IED.
Something about that fucks with a kid’s head, ya know? Those effects have outlasted anything he ever did to us.
Rome and I continued playing baseball because we loved it, but I knew I’d never play the sport our old man loved above everything else professionally, so I went hard when I started playing football as a big fuck you to him.
This past Mother’s Day, Rome, Jill, and I gave her back just a little bit of what she gave us. She gave us a home regardless of where we lived, and we gave her the physical form of that.
Not one part of that had shit to do with the old man. But yeah, in the past, I’ve given him money to keep his ass away, but then he came at Jillian, saying we owed him and he was going to the press if she didn’t give him money. Rome found out, and we decided no more; who the fuck cares if he comes at us?
Then Jillian got knocked out, mugged, and was taken to the hospital. We suspected he could have been involved, but man, did I pray he wasn’t. Growing up, we were able to keep her from the harshest of that shit, but yeah, this time, he did more than knock the wind out of her; she ended up in the hospital.
She’s all good, had a concussion, healed fast, and he’s in jail for the first time ever for a crime against the people he should want to protect with his life.
I had two years where my pregame rituals were all energy and no anger, and my game wasn’t affected as I feared it would be when not honing in on that darkness, but right now, I really need a reminder of who the fuck I am.
Those feelings that maybe there’s a possibility that I could truly leave it all in the past, that maybe I’m not broken inside, are fucking wrong. Rome’s now engaged, and Jillian’s head’s up her ass in love with a guy who’s just as deep; that’s them, not me.
Affirmation comes as I begin feeling it. The thick, numbing sludge seeping through my veins, numbing me enough to allow me to be in the headspace required to crush Philly this afternoon.
They have the number two offense in the country and the number eight defensive record. We’re fourth in offense and twelfth in D. Their record W’s surpass us, and we’re not doing all that bad by having a five and two record halfway through the season. We’re one W and one L at home. That needs to change in our favor this week. And when it does, we’re tied with Philly for number one in the division.
My old man; the fans of the Knights before it was bought out by the Links, Ross, Brooks, Abraham, Hines crew and moved from Knoxville to Blue Valley and hate the new Knights team yet show up to be dicks; the sheep in Knights’ fan gear, like fuckwit Brett; and all the fucking haters who say we’re a joke don’t get a fucking W today. We do.
’Cause I am whatever you say I am. If I wasn’t, then why would I say I am …
Walking into the kitchen, hood up, covering my AirPods, my playlist blasting in my ears but low enough so that it’s not heard by little ears, I’m in the zone.
I sit in the middle of my kitchen island, head tipped back as Jillian squirts whipped cream from a can into her open mouth while Boone’s back is turned as he’s grilling on the cooktop.
Jill mouths, “ Shhh …” as she sets the can on the counter and bops Lily’s little nose as she smiles from ear to ear. Her blonde ringlets are tied into little pigtails with gold ribbons, and she is all decked out in Boone’s number, from her little Jersey to her custom, gold, sparkling little high-top Converse, with his number on the heels of them.
Whyyyyy is she so adorable? Just why?
Lily turns and looks me up and down, making a face. Then she turns and asks, “Daddy, why Hart look like that?”
Boone looks over his shoulder at me and answers, “He’s in gangster mode. Game prep, flower.”
Jillian’s face scrunches up, and she sucks her lips in so she doesn’t laugh, until …
“You gonna go gangster, Daddy?”
“Not a chance.” He winks at her and sings, “‘’ Cause I’m a cowboy, baby .’”
Lily jumps up on the counter and sings, “‘ With a top hat back and the sun shining high .’”
The fact she slaughters the lyrics doesn’t take away from the reality that she’s fucking adorable, and both Jillian and I laugh our asses off as Boone, and she do some bit they’ve clearly done a million times.
The sludge? Fucking gone.
As I walk Jillian to the door so she can head back to Mom’s, she whispers, “If she and Zane are going at it, I’m coming right back here.”
“Guessing since Roman and CeCe arrived, they’re done with whatever it is they were doing.”
She grins. “That means my man is here, too. In that case, we may be back to break one of your beds so we don’t freak Mom and Rome out.”
I simply shake my head.
She’s clearly offended at my lack of reactions. “Not even an ew from you?”
“I love you and only want what’s best for you, Jill. I want you happy, so no ew from me. You two are welcome to break a bed whenever you want.”
“That may be one of the sweetest and most fucked-up things you have ever said to me, especially since it’s yours and Rome’s fault no one ever dared try to date me, and I was a virgin until Nour.”
I kiss her cheek. “You’re welcome.”
She shoves me away and turns to leave. “Whatever.”
“Daddy, I wanna be a virgin, too,” Lily says from behind us.
“Shit,” Jillian whisper-gasps.
“Flower, I’m gonna need you to say that again.”
Shocked, I turn and look at him as he holds his phone up. “All right, I’m ready.”
Lily grins. “I wanna be a virgin, too!”
“For how long?” he asks, grinning like a fool.
“Forever!” She throws her hands in the air.
“All right, perfect.”
After Jillian leaves, we watch some tape while studying our playbooks and taking notes with Lily between us, watching some video on her iPad and scribbling in her own notebook.
Smiling as I watch her, Boone clears his throat, and I glance up at him. “What?”
“Nothing, man, absolutely nothing.”
Pulling into my parking spot at Legacy Field, my playlist is summoning the sludge, and it’s coming back with a vengeance as we pass the charter bus. Then Boone reaches over and turns down the tunes.
“What are you doing?” I scowl at him.
“Saving you from being added to a watchlist.”
“It’s not that bad,” I defend my fucking choice of music.
“It’s bad.” He shakes his head and arches a brow. “It’s the kind of music you don’t even have to go through the effort of finding the vinyl recording so you can play it backward to get the message . It’s just right there, waiting to suck your soul out and bring it straight to hell.”
What the fuck? I laugh, but to myself.
He opens the door, doing the whole sign of the cross as he slides out.
“It’s Korn,” I yell after him.
“He’s called by many names, Hart.” He turns and faces me as he shuts the door and whispers, “Many.”
After checking in with medical and assuring them that my legs are good, hamstrings loose, and ankles strong, I head to the locker room to check in with Warren. It’s part of his game day routine and has now become mine.
He tosses me a few passes, making sure we’re connected. We are; have been since senior year in college. Next, we hit pregame warmups with our offensive coordinator, Coach Cox, focusing on running routes and catching passes while Cody finetunes his timing. Boone steps in with Warren, and I do a few agility drills, making sure my footwork is on point. It is.
After warmups, we hit the showers and grab lunch before heading to the conference center, where Coach Cohen is pacing back and forth in front of the room.
Once everyone is inside and seated, he clears his throat. “Everybody stand up, turn around, and face the back wall.”
We all do what he asks, and it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s a little bit confused as to why. But when the screen lights up, I see where this is going.
“Bricks, what does the top one say?”
“1989, last playoff win.”
Cohens nods. “Decker, what does the next one say?”
Deck reads, “1992, last division championship game.”
Cohen continues, “Hart, the next line?”
“1974, last league championship.”
“Good, go ahead and have a seat, men.”
Feeling like shit, which is the intention, we do as asked.
“You’re not here just to play a fucking game. You’re here because the owners and coaching staff decided they wanted you beside them as we build our legacy. We build it now. We are in a position, with this team, to do just that, but everything is about setting ourselves up for that to continue happening. We want ’22 to be at least what ’92 was. We don’t want a fucking wild card; we want the division championship to be a home game. We want them to have to go through us to get to the big game. That right there will be celebrated like a fucking Super Bowl win in this town, by the owners, by the true fans, by this staff, and by you. If we gotta go somewhere else to get that W, fine, we’ll go through them on their field. But the time is now. The vision for this team was always to build a legacy, and that starts now!”
We all cheer because we feel it. We feel the truth in our being chosen for this.
“How do you feel about our team having a record of five to two going into our final nine games?” When we start to reply, he holds his hand up, stopping us. “I don’t want you to tell me in words; I want you to show me on the fucking field. I want you to show the fucking Eagles that no matter how high they’re flying, the fucking New York Knights can take him down. Now hit the locker rooms and gear up.”
As we exit, we’re greeted as we are every home game—the walls from the conference room all the way to the locker room are lined with the owners. Today, going down the hall as they each take the time to shake our hands and tell us good luck, I’m pretty damn sure it’s every one of them. And at the end of the line, I see two who I didn’t know were part of the co-op of owners. I was pretty damn sure Ryan and Jade Brooks owned the construction company that built Mom’s place. Not once did they say they owned part of the team.
Jade, a gorgeous brunette, like her daughters, shakes my hand. “So glad you’re part of the family.”
I know it’s meant to make me feel good like I’m part of something, but all I can think is I basically fucked my sister and am currently lusting after the other one.
Ryan grips my shoulder. “You good, Hart?”
“Yeah.” I scrub my hand over my head. “Yeah, just thinking family.” I tap my fist to my chest. “That’s deep.”
I notice Jade elbow Ryan, who expels a harsh breath through his nose before looking from her to me. “The day you were drafted, my little girl?—”
Jade elbows him again.
“Everything good?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, it’s all great.” Ryan clears his throat. “I just remember watching the draft and my Riley saying the words, ‘welcome to the family’ when you were drafted.”
I’m going to hell, or maybe to my old high school, to teach gym class. I’d like that way better than hell.
Not sure what comes over me, but I pull them both in for a hug. “Didn’t remember. I was probably in shock, but fuck, it touches something deep. Then Mom’s place. I respect the fuck out of you both. I hope you never forget that.”
I hear a growl, and, yeah, I need to move it along so whoever the fuck is behind me doesn’t get any more pissed off.
As I step away, Jade grabs my chin and turns my face to her. “We do know. Now go kick ass, Hudson Hart.”
Walking into the locker room, I look back to see who the hell was growling behind me. Skinner.
“You good, man?”
“No, but I will be once I’m on the field, breaking shit.”
“O line, over here!” Coach Cox yells.
Once we’re all gathered in front of him, he starts, “Bradberry and Slay lead the league in tackles and interceptions.” He taps the side of his head. “Stay alert, Knights; it’s time to go to war.”
We all change when Pastor Josh walks in. “Okay, Knights, bring it in.”
We huddle around him as he begins, “Father, I thank You for each and every one of these young men. I thank You for the years they’ve had and the years ahead. In today’s game, I ask You, Father, that they play like never before. God, let them continue to give You glory and know that they are blessed by You. Lord, You gave them this gift; let it be a testament to the team, and their opponents, on and off this field. God, let it spill out into the community. Father, I ask that through Your blessings given to each and every one of them, and the attention this game, this sport receives, that it is not lost on the fans and viewers that inside that stadium, they’re fighting for a win, they’re fighting for their team, but when the whistle is blown, and the game is done, they’re all Your children. I ask You this in Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Enter Sandman” begins, and I bounce on my toes as we prepare to head to the tunnel leading to the field, where we’ll come face-to-face with our opponents, their fans, our haters.
At this moment, I’m not even pissed that the sludge is gone; the energy zinging through me is like I imagine dosing on X would be like.
“You fucked up?” Skinner yells.
“Fuck yeah!” I yell as we jump into each other.
“Let’s go,” Cody Warren says, jogging past us to lead the team out.
I grab his elbow. “Let Big Daddy Boone lead us out today. His little girl is here for the first time.”
He nods. “Good call.” Then he looks back at Boone. “You lead.”
“You sure, man?” He grins.
He nods.
“Hey, Boone.”
He looks at me.
“Instead of humping the air, how about you cowboy it up. More kid-appropriate.”
Boone doesn’t disappoint. He runs out, does a couple of flips, and does his little dance, but instead of thrusts, he lassoes the air and tosses it up to where Lily is sitting with my family and … Lindsey.
The look on his face tells me he didn’t know she was coming, but he’s happy as hell she’s here.
We take to the sideline as Cody and Bricks head out for the coin toss.
I nod up to the stands. “How are you doing?”
“There’s definitely something about seeing your family on the sidelines, man.” He hits his chest with his fist. “It grounds me, reminds me of why I started playing this game.” He laughs out, “Why the hell I ever thought it would be easier to be a professional football player than a rancher is beyond me.”
“Pays a hell of a lot more, that’s why.” I laugh.
“Damn right, it does.”
We win the coin toss, and we’ll be receiving first.
“Coach, I want out there,” he calls to Coach Cohen.
“You sure about that?” he asks, as it’s not typical that Boone goes out at the kickoff; special team does.
“My kid’s here, and so is my ex. I got something to prove right now.”
“Then do it.”
The moment the ball soars into the air and Boone shifts to the left of the field, anticipation ripples down the sidelines. When it spirals down and lands in Boone’s hands, there is no pause—he’s off like lightning. The crowd’s roar is so loud I’m sure they hear it down in the village.
He darts to the right before cutting back left in a move so smooth it makes the Philly’s defenders stumble. I’m pretty fucking sure my heart is pounding in sync with his strides, each one faster than the last. Black and gold Knights block him from behind, making sure none of Philly’s players catch up to him; black and gold ahead of him crash into the oncoming wave of defenders, opening a lane that seems impossibly narrow, but they can’t touch him.
One quick leap over the player in front of him that Hunt took down, and he’s gone—past the thirty, the forty like he was shot out of a fucking cannon. The sideline erupts, and we’re all screaming, jumping, hands slapping helmets and backs, riding the wave of adrenaline as he outpaces the last desperate defender. The fifty-yard line flies beneath his feet, then our forty, and he’s still not slowing down.
“He’s taking it all the way!” The words barely leave my mouth as Boone hits the twenty, then the ten, still untouched.
“Fuck yes! Fuck yes!” I scream as he does his endzone dance, and he does it without humping the air.