Chapter Twenty-Two
Flynn
The huddle’s quiet, electricity sparking between the guys. You can feel it in the air. No one’s joking, no one’s laughing. We made it. Finally, the fucking Super Bowl.
We scraped through the conference finals, winning by the skin of our teeth, but we did it. New York put up a good fight, but we’d been on fire all game. For every play they threw at us, we had the answer. Scott almost cried. So did I.
He came to Boston to get a ring.
We’ve dreamed of the ring since college. Both of us, together on the field when the confetti releases. Every player wants to feel it at least once. If they’re lucky, if they’re good, they will.
Now is our time.
Scott looks each of us dead in the eye. “One play. Gun Spread Y Corner. We go now or we go home.” He looks at me last. “You ready, Reed?”
All eyes are on me. This is what we train for.
What we live for. What we sacrifice for.
I give a sharp nod, the movement minimal.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins. I’m on the high again.
As we break the huddle and spread out across the line, I flex my hands.
The sharp pain I felt in those early regular season games is nothing but a memory.
I can’t regret it. That bar fight brought me Katie. If it weren’t for that douchebag in boat shoes, I would’ve probably just kept staring at her from afar, never having the guts to find out if we were anything more than a one-night stand on a holiday.
We are.
So, so much more.
My heart pounds as if it’s trying to match the game clock.
I split off, wide off the line, advantaging the wide receiver’s position and lining myself with a smaller defender.
I’m quicker. I can outrun him. It’s fourth and goal, the ball’s on the eight.
The end zone is in sight, and my blood rushes from the pressure cooker that is this final play.
I glance at the safety. Too shallow. The corner’s inside leverage. If I go wide, he’ll miss me. Mistake. They’re weak. We’re going to do this.
Snap.
I burst off the line, exploding into my route with every inch of power and speed I can muster.
I make a quick jab to the outside, leading the cornerback out of position.
He bites, taking the bait as he shifts his weight to the outside line.
I plant my foot into the turf and use the leverage to change my direction, heading for the corner of the end zone.
It’s a clean route. No stumbling, no contact. I feel open before I even look back.
When I do, I see it. The ball, hanging like a gift as it sails through the air. I stretch out my arm, but … fuck, it’s short. I make the decision on instinct. I dive.
Arms stretched, fingers splayed, I feel the ball hit my hand.
I got it.
Before I can curl my fingers, before I can pull it in to my chest and secure the win—
Bam.
A helmet crashes straight into the side of my head. I hear a deafening crack. My ears begin to ring, the sound of the stadium disappearing as my cleats hit the turf and my knees buckle beneath me.
It’s a blindside.
Helmet-to-helmet contact. The defender didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t stop in time. It’s not malicious, it’s just football.
Just bad luck.
I feel as if I’m falling, but it’s infinite. I don’t hit grass or another body. I just keep falling. Then, it goes white. Everything brightens in the space of mere seconds, blinding me.
Then black.
Then nothing.
***
I come to on the turf, flat on my back and unfeeling. My ears still ring, and it sounds like someone is screaming through a broken radio. Everything is muffled even as I strain to make out the sounds around me. My arms won’t move. My head feels as if it’s caving in on itself.
A pulsing deafens my ears, traveling through my nerves and down my spine. My vision’s a tunnel. Everything is blurry, and when it begins to clear, the stadium lights stare down at me like a judgment.
I hear my name, over and over. Someone’s shouting for my attention. Teammates? Trainers? Fans?
A face hovers over me, then a bright light. On instinct, I follow it.
“What happened?” I try to say. I can’t be sure that it comes out. My mouth is dry, my muscles numb. I can’t move. Nothing is working right.
But then I feel it. Someone lifts a finger, and I twitch as they let it drop.
I feel the ball.
It’s pressed against my chest. Still there, still tucked in. I never let go.
I held on.
Above us, on the screens that shine around the stadium, one word flashes.
Touchdown.
The whistle’s blown. The clock’s run out. It’s game over, and we won.
We’re champions.
Confetti falls like rain around us, but my teammates aren’t celebrating. I jostle and realize they’re moving me onto a stretcher. I want to walk off. I need to walk off.
Katie’s face flashes through my mind, and I feel like screaming, just so one of the medics will hear me. She’s watching right now with no idea what’s happened or where I’m going.
Scott’s face comes into my line of sight, covered in dirt and grass from the game. His helmet is off, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looks distraught. I want to tell him I’m fine. I want to ask him to make sure Katie knows I’m fine.
But I can’t.
The truth is, something is definitely wrong.