Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Knox
The lights hit the field like daylight as the crowd roars to life behind me. Bleachers full. Band loud. Homecoming.
I pace the sideline as the boys line up for kickoff. Pads clack. Chin straps snap into place. I feel the pulse of it in my chest, tight, steady, commanding. They’re ready. Hell, I’m ready.
“Start strong!” I shout. “Set the tone early!”
The ref blows his whistle. We’re off.
The first quarter is a blur.
We strike fast. Quick tosses. Short-yardage runs. Clean execution, just like we walked it yesterday.
Riley drops back and sends a smooth throw down the sideline—one of those tight spirals that barely skims the defender’s fingertips.
Alvarez snags it in stride and tears up twenty yards, defenders dragging at his ankles the whole way.
The crowd roars, our sideline lights up, and for a minute, it feels like we might steamroll straight through them.
But the other team isn’t folding.
They hit back hard. Run-heavy formations, straight power football that wears on our defense and drains the clock one bruising down at a time. Our boys hold, but it’s a grind. A test of grit, not flash.
When the buzzer sounds to end the first quarter, it’s 7–7. Dead even.
We’re not getting anything for free tonight.
Tempers start to flare when we enter the second quarter. Our right tackle jumps early, false start. We regroup, push through, grind down the field. Riley finds Bowers in the corner of the end zone and suddenly we’re up 14–7.
But it doesn’t last long.
They return the next kickoff for a touchdown that leaves our entire kickoff team unit looking like they’re standing in cement.
Sending us into halftime with a 14–14 tie.
The locker room is buzzing. Not panicked. Just wired. I don’t yell. I look them in the eye, steady and calm, and tell them what they already know.
“You’re better than them. Now go prove it.”
Back on the field, the third quarter turns into a dog fight. It’s a bloodbath. Every inch of ground is earned.
They sack Riley on second down and I can feel my heart stop, but he pops back up, waving off the trainer. The kid’s made of iron. On fourth and short, he fakes the handoff and keeps it himself, diving past the marker like it’s life or death.
We punch in another touchdown.
21–14.
But with thirty seconds left in the quarter, they score again.
21–21.
The crowd is loud, deafening as the fourth starts. Cedar Falls always shows up, but tonight, they are unrelenting.
We force a fumble with eight minutes left on the clock. Our sideline erupts. Ty damn near rushes the sideline.
The boys drive down the field, burning clock. Bowers takes a hit to the ribs, gets back up. They want it. Every one of them is playing like the town’s future depends on it.
Riley looks to me on third and goal. I give him the nod to make the play I know he can complete.
Shotgun snap. Riley drops back—nothing open. Coverage is tight. He feels the pocket collapsing and rolls out right, the defense containing him near the sideline.
For a second, it looks like they’ve got him boxed in.
Then—quick as a blink—he zips a bullet over the outstretched hands of a linebacker. A tight window, just inside the hash.
The kind of throw that takes guts and precision.
Alvarez leaps. Catches.
Touchdown.
27–21.
Kenny easily makes the extra point and the stands explode.
But there’s still a minute twenty-three on the clock. Too much time.
They come back swinging, no huddle, fast passes. My defense bends and bends, but doesn’t break. On fourth and ten with six seconds left, they go long.
Our cornerback leaps. Deflects it.
The second the whistle blows, the field becomes a riot of helmets and shouting. Riley is lifted off the ground, the players piling around him, and somehow I get pulled into the middle of it—hugged, clapped on the back, their sweat-soaked helmets knocking into me as they scream and cry and laugh.
Pride swells in my chest so big it feels like I might split wide open.
The kind that rises hot and deep, settling in my bones, making it hard to breathe in the best possible way.
They did it. My team. My boys. They fought for every inch, every down, and they didn’t just survive—they earned this win with determination and heart.
I close my eyes for half a heartbeat and let it sink in—the sound of their joy, the heat of the lights, the weight of everything we’ve worked for finally paying off. And then I look up.
My eyes go straight to the stands. I don’t even think about it. I just look for her.
And there she is.
Brynn stands at the edge of the crowd, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining with unshed tears. She’s not cheering like everyone else. Not screaming or clapping or waving her arms. She’s just watching me. Only me. Still. Silent. Steady.
And in that second, everything else fades—the roar of the crowd, the chaos on the field, even the sting in my legs from the past four quarters. It all disappears. It’s just her.
I want to run to her. I want to climb the damn bleachers, pull her into my arms, bury my face in her neck, and show this whole damn town how much I love her.
But I can’t. Not yet. So I just look at her.
I give her everything I have in that look—my pride, my joy, my love. All of it.
And she gives it right back.