Chapter 1
Fin
Ablinding white flare flashed behind my closed eyes. Air escaped my lungs as I was caught in a high-impact collision. Ringing in my ears added to my confusion. My brain searched for clues to where I was.
In a car crash.
Hit by a bus.
The world lurched and tilted.
The game.
It wasn’t a high-speed crash—yet it was.
I was sandwiched between a 250-pound player and the hard turf of NRG Stadium. Gasping for breath, I groaned as some of the pressure eased. As I tried to move, I instinctively clenched my teeth when a sickening pop erupted from my left shoulder.
Forcing my eyes open, my vision was blurred as I stared upward at the bright lights.
JD was in my face, his lips moving and his words inaudible over the clamoring of static.
Trying to push myself up, my left arm collapsed, sending nausea through me as with each beat of my heart, a fresh surge of agony radiated from my shoulder to my left arm.
“Fin, talk to me, man,” JD’s voice broke through the ringing.
“Graham.” Coach Tilson was now in view, lines of concern prominent around his eyes.
“I’m okay,” I managed to say.
Whether it was mind over matter or the rush of adrenaline that came after a hit, the pain seemed more tolerable.
“Get a stretcher,” Tilson yelled.
“No.” I pushed myself up with my right arm. “I can walk.”
“Are you sure?”
I reached up toward JD who grasped my right hand and helped me to my feet. The movement sent nauseating shock waves from my shoulder. My left arm was heavier than before. Looking down, I willed it to move. It was almost as if the limb didn’t belong to me. “It’s my shoulder.”
With Coach Pratt on one side of me, my right arm over his shoulder, and a trainer on the other side, his arm around my waist, I hobbled back to the sideline. I willed myself not to look down the sideline for the woman I’d just disappointed.
This was a must-win game. That was the thought dominating my mind as I collapsed on the turf.
The world around me began to make sense. It was like a radio station that was finally in tune. I stared at the trainer. “How much time is left?”
“A minute and twelve seconds.”
“Help me up.” When the trainer looked unsure, I said, “I’ll do it myself.”
He reached for my right arm and pulled me to my feet.
The scoreboard said we were ahead by one point 14–13.
“Dennison is out there,” he said.
Holding my left arm against my torso, I turned to see Marcel Pickett at my side. “What down? How many yards?”
“Texans were called for pass interference with your throw to JD. That got us down to the Texans’ thirty-eight-yard line and a first down.”
My gaze went out onto the field. The Coopers were lined up in split-back formation. Spencer snapped the ball to Dennison. He faked a handoff to Bennett before throwing a shovel pass to Patel.
Six yards on the play.
The clock read one minute and two seconds.
On second and four from the Texans’ thirty-two-yard line, Dennison tucked the ball and ran through a gap in the defense. He slid feetfirst at the Texans’ twenty-eight-yard line.
First down.
Time-out called by the Coopers. It was our last time-out.
I stepped toward Coach Pratt.
“You’re coming in,” he yelled into his microphone.
Dennison came toward the sideline, visibly upset.
“I told you no heroics.” He turned his attention to our third-string quarterback. “Jackson,” Pratt yelled. “You’re in.”
My body trembled. The season was on the line. Jackson knew our plays, but could he hold on to the ball? “Coach,” I called. “Put me in.”
“Graham, you’re injured.”
“All we have to do is run down the clock. I can still throw. It’s my left shoulder.”
Coach Pratt stared at me, pressing his lips together. “You’re injured.”
I reached for my helmet. “You’re taking Dennison out so he doesn’t get hurt. Good. I’m already hurt. I won’t lose this game.” I looked at Josh Jackson. “Sorry, but you’re not ready for this.” I turned back to Pratt. “I can do it.”
“Go,” Pratt said, his tone begrudging. “No heroics from you either. Got it, Graham?”
“Got it.”
Holding my left arm against my torso, I walked onto the field. While each step sent jarring pain from my left shoulder, the closer I came to my teammates, the less I thought about the injury.
“Dennison’s slide freaked out the coaches,” I said in the huddle.
“Can you play?” Spencer asked.
“Under center. My right hand and arm are good. We need one successful play. Then I’ll take a knee.” Ten sets of eyes stared at me.
Dijon Ortiz was the first to agree with a grunt and a cheer. Soon the offense was huddling closer as I repeated the call from my helmet.
We lined up with me under center—right behind Spencer. The defense was close—a blitz was on the way. They were running prevent defense. They only had one cornerback in the backfield.
I stared one way down the offensive line and then the other. We could win as long as we got a first down. Or we could win with a decisive victory that would tell the rest of the NFL world that the Coopers were contenders for the Super Bowl.
I changed the play, calling an RPO—run pass option—and set the cadence. “Set hut!”
Spencer tucked the ball into my right hand.
Patel ran wide left. Lewis ran wide right.
The offensive line held against the defenders.
JD ran a post route.
I faked a pass to Ortiz. The lone cornerback ran in his direction. I stepped back.
JD was wide open.
Without thought of pain or injury, I reared my right arm back and sent a spiral over the heads of the defense. I stepped back before the tackle reached me and watched as JD caught the ball and ran into the end zone.
“Coopers touchdown,” came from the speakers.
All around NGR Stadium, the Texans’ fans were making their way out of their seats and to the exits.
We had time for the extra point.
The Texans got the ball back with thirty-seven seconds on the clock. Our lead was eight points. Back on the sideline, I collapsed onto the bench, my arm suddenly remembering to hurt.
“What part of no heroics can’t you or Dennison understand?” Pratt asked, taking the seat to my side. “How are you doing?”
Dennison was now at my other side. “Good job reading the defense,” Troy said.
Coach Pratt stared from one of us to the other. “You two will be the death of me.” He zeroed his gaze at me, scanning my useless left arm. “Talk to me.”
“I need this shoulder popped back into place and then I’ll let you know.”
“Go into the locker room.”
My gaze found Vee on the sidelines. She was concentrating on the playing field and clenching her notebook to her chest. Under the bright lights, tears glistened on her cheeks.
“Can I wait until the final buzzer?”
Coach Pratt followed my line of sight and turned back to me. “You probably freaked her out.” He scoffed. “You freaked me out.”
“I want to tell her I’m okay.”
Pratt nodded.
The buzzer sounded.
The Coopers were officially 16–1 and the winners of the AFC South, giving us first seed for the playoffs.
We would have a week to rest as the Texans played in the Wild Card. Fucking crazy that a 15–2 record didn’t guarantee them a spot in postseason.
With a wince, I stood and walked down the sideline.
Reporters were beginning to flood the field.
Vee turned, her simmering emerald eyes met mine. Her expression was unreadable. “Are you crazy?”
I nodded. “Most definitely.”
“Are you trying to be in the hospital?”
“No.” I slowly shook my head.
She closed her eyes as her nostrils flared. When she opened them, I was in front of her. “You scared me, Fin.”
“The Coopers are on their way to the Super Bowl, Ms. Hubbard, No. 1 seed. I couldn’t sit when there was a chance that protecting Troy would fuck up the entire winning season.”
Vee swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Graham.”
“Fin.”
I turned to the Texans’ quarterback, Sam Anthony. He patted my right shoulder. “Good game.”
“Good game.”
“When are you going to retire?” He smiled. “Seems like you’ve been a thorn in my side since you played at Green Bay.”
“You were with the Lions.” I looked down at my useless arm and back. “The mind and heart want me to say never. The body—yeah, getting old.”
He smiled. “We’re going to have to meet again.”
“The road to the Super Bowl.”
“Mr. Graham. Mr. Anthony,” reporters called.
“Fin,” a petite blond holding a microphone said.
When I turned, Vee was walking away toward the tunnel.
“No hard feelings between you and Sam?”
I grinned. “He’s one of the best quarterbacks I’ve had the honor to play against.”
“How did you do it?” she asked with a microphone in my face.
“It wasn’t all me. The Coopers are a team.”
“I mean with your injury.” She looked at my left arm cradled against my torso. “Your shoulder is dislocated.”
I gave a lopsided grin. “Not sure yet. I’m headed back to the locker room to find out.”