Chapter 27 #2
“He's not playing scared,” Chris observed. “Look at him. He's having fun.”
He was right. Isak was bouncing between plays, chatting with his linemen, even gave a little fist bump to the Bay State player who helped him up after a tackle.
On the third play, Bay State brought the house on a blitz. Isak stood tall in the pocket, waited until the last possible second, and delivered a strike down the sideline for thirty yards.
“WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?” Jules screamed.
“He's been watching film with me,” Chris said, recognizing the route concept. “We ran that play a hundred times in the backyard last summer.”
By halftime, Isak had led two touchdown drives, and we were only down 21-17. The kid who'd grown up as the youngest brother of the seven of us boys, always fighting for attention, was commanding that field like a senior.
The second half was magic.
Isak was seeing the field like a ten-year veteran. When Bay State adjusted their coverage, he adjusted right back. When they brought pressure, he had the hot route ready. His teammates were responding too, playing harder, finishing blocks, fighting for extra yards.
“He's got it,” Dad said quietly in the third quarter. “That thing you can't teach.”
With five minutes left in the fourth quarter, we were up 31-28, but Bay State was driving. Their quarterback found Fox Daws on three straight plays, moving them into field goal range with ruthless efficiency.
“That Fox kid is unreal,” Flynn muttered with grudging respect.
With two minutes left, Bay State punched it in. 35-31, Bay State.
“Okay, baby brother,” Chris said. “Show us what you got.”
Two minutes. One timeout. Eighty yards to go.
Isak took the field, and I swear he looked calmer than I'd ever seen him. He looked up at our section, found us, and gave a little nod.
“Did he just—“ Chris started.
“He's saying watch this,” I finished.
My phone was blowing up with messages from Everett again.
EVERETT
DID HE JUST NOD AT YOU GUYS??
PEN SAYS THAT'S BIG DICK ENERGY
I can't believe I'm missing this
Actually I can because Pen just had another Braxton-Hicks and I need to be here
First down was an incomplete pass, but Isak had seen something. He was talking to his receiver, adjusting the route.
On the second down he did the same play, but this time the receiver broke differently. Twenty-yard gain.
“He's coaching them,” I said, amazed. “Mid-game adjustments.”
The two-minute warning stopped the clock. Isak gathered his offense, and even from the stands, you could see him taking charge. No panic, just focus.
The next four plays were poetry. Short passes to move the chains, a perfectly timed draw to get into field goal range. With thirty seconds left, facing third and goal from the twelve, Isak took the snap.
The pocket collapsed immediately. Isak spun out of a sack that would've ended everything, kept his eyes downfield, pump-faked to freeze the safety, then found his receiver in the back corner of the end zone.
Touchdown. Denver State 37, Bay State 35.
The stadium went absolutely insane.
“THAT'S MY brOTHER!” I yelled, not caring who heard me. “THAT'S MY BABY brOTHER!”
Artie was jumping up and down beside me, and I grabbed her, spinning her around as confetti cannons went off and the whole Kingman section was screaming and hugging and definitely crying.
“We need to get down there,” Chris said, already moving.
Somehow—Chris's deep fucking pockets, definitely—we made it to field level. Isak was doing interviews, but when he saw us, he broke away from the Sports Network mid-sentence and ran over.
“Did you see that?” he asked, like he was twelve again.
“See it?” Dad pulled him into a hug. “Son, that was the best quarterbacking I've seen from a Kingman yet.”
“Including Grandpa?”
“Especially including Coach.”
One by one, we all hugged him. When he got to me, he held on extra long.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For showing me it was okay to leave home and still carry it with you.”
I pulled back, looking at my baby brother who wasn't such a baby anymore. “You've got it backward, man. Home follows us. We don't carry it.”
He grinned. “Whatever, you're getting sappy. But also...” He looked at Artie, who was taking pictures with Jules. “You better lock that down before someone realizes what you've got.”
“Already on it.”
“Good.”
Before I could respond to that, someone called Isak's name. Fox Daws was walking over, helmet under his arm, that movie star smile in full effect.
“Great game, man,” Fox said, offering his hand. “That last drive was something special.”
“Thanks.” Isak shook his hand, trying to play it cool but clearly starstruck. “You were incredible out there. Three touchdowns?”
“Would've been four if your safety hadn't made that play in the third.” Fox glanced at me. “You're Gryff, right? We met at the combine.”
“Yeah, good to see you again.”
Jules squeaked beside me.
“Your brother's got a future,” Fox said, genuine respect in his voice. “If he ever wants to run routes in the off-season, I'm in LA.”
“I might take you up on that,” Isak said.
Jules double squeaked.
They did that complicated handshake-hug thing athletes do, and then Fox was jogging back to his team. Isak watched him go with an expression I recognized, already planning, already thinking ahead.
“Don't even think about it,” I warned. “You're not transferring to Bay State.”
“I'm not transferring anywhere,” Isak said. “But if I happen to get drafted by whoever drafts him...”
“You're twenty-one.”
“I'm a long-term planner.”
As the celebration continued around us, as reporters tried to get Isak back, as our family took approximately seven thousand photos, I found myself standing with Artie at the edge of it all, watching the chaos.
“Full circle,” she said, looking around the stadium. “First game you ever brought me to was in a stadium like this.”
“You complained about the lack of proper tea options.”
“It's a valid complaint. Earl Grey in a paper cup is a crime against humanity.”
“You loved it though.”
“I loved watching you love it,” she corrected. “The way you explained every play, every tradition. You made me love it too.”
“And now?”
She turned to face me fully, and there was something in her eyes that made my chest tight. “Now I get why these moments matter. The game, the family, all of it. It's not just about winning.”
“What's it about?”
“It's about...” she gestured at the field, where Isak was being carried on his teammates' shoulders while Bay State players congratulated our guys, where families were taking pictures and strangers were hugging.
“It's about becoming who you're supposed to be, surrounded by people who see you get there.”
“Very philosophical for someone who once called football 'organized chaos with occasional hugging.'”
“It's both things.” She went up on her toes and kissed me, right there on the field with the California sun setting behind the mountains and my family definitely taking pictures. “That's what makes it perfect.”
When she pulled back, she was smiling that smile that made me forget about everything else.
“Hey, Gryff?”
“Yeah?”
“I love this. Every tailgate, every game, every moment of Kingman chaos. I choose us.”
I knew what she meant. After everything with her dad, with choosing Team USA over Team GB, with building our life together in LA, she was choosing our future.
“Even if it means learning what a bowl game actually is?”
“Even then. Though I maintain the naming convention makes no sense and there should at least be fancy bowls for cereal or chips or something given out as parting gifts.”
We were both laughing now, standing in the middle of the Flower Bowl field, surrounded by celebration and possibility.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too.”
“KINGMAN! KINGMAN!” The crowd was chanting now, and we turned to watch my little brother accepting the game MVP trophy.
“We should probably tell him to enjoy it,” Artie said. “This might be the last time a Kingman quarterback gets to be the family hero.”
“Why's that?”
She grinned, that mischievous look that still made my heart skip. “Because when our hypothetical future children are watching Uncle Isak play, they're going to ask why he needs all those pads and helmets and think they're tougher than him since they play rugby.”
I nearly choked. “Our hypothetical future children?”
“Eventual. Theoretical. Potential children who will definitely be raised around goats.”
“You can't just casually drop theoretical children into conversation.”
“I can when I'm thinking about our future.”
“Our future with goats and children?”
“And at least three dogs. Bear the Fourth needs cousins to come visit. We've discussed this.”
We hadn't discussed any of this, but as I stood there with her, watching my family celebrate Isak's moment, watching him and Fox Daws exchange numbers while planning off-season workouts, I realized we didn't need to. Some things you just knew.
Like how we'd probably end up with too many animals and a house full of chaos. Like how our kids would grow up with an army of aunts and uncles and cousins, spending New Year's at bowl games, learning to throw footballs and rugby balls in equal measure.
Like how this, all of this, was exactly where we were supposed to be.
“Come on,” I said, taking her hand. “Let's go celebrate with the family.”
“Our family,” she corrected.
“Yeah,” I agreed, pulling her toward the chaos of Kingmans. “Our family.”
As we joined the celebration, as Dad started telling everyone about his bowl game victories, as my brothers organized another round of pictures, as Isak tried to escape to the locker room only to be dragged back by his brothers, I thought about what Dad had said in the parking lot.
About being anchored-to-the-world happy.
He was right. Success was one thing. Taking care of people was another.
But this? Being chosen, being loved, being part of something bigger than yourself while still being completely yourself?
This was happiness.
And I was never letting it go.