13. Hunter #2
It was a ritual as much as a reminder. The tape was control. If I could hold onto it, nothing else would slip.
Across from me, Dom was pacing like he’d been plugged into a power line. His helmet swung from one hand, and his mouth never stopped moving.
“Let’s fucking go! I want blood tonight! You hear me?” He slapped a lineman’s shoulder pads so hard the man almost stumbled. “You’re mine, big guy! You won’t even know what hit you when I come flying past your sorry ass!”
His voice cracked the air, followed by his laughter, loud and exuberant. Half of the locker room answered him, caught up in the energy and storm he had whipped up.
I didn’t laugh.
Dom’s mouth never stopped, but considering he’d be my brother-in-law someday, I was exercising serious self-control by not telling him to shut the fuck up.
Coach’s whistle pierced the room. Helmets clattered, bodies rose, and the floor trembled under their cleats.
I slid my helmet on. The chin strap snapped into place, and the noise blurred, muffled, like the world itself had been pushed back. There was nothing left except the game.
Except—
I looked up when we filed into the tunnel, past the heavy smoke machine, past the band’s brass shrieking, past the endless blur of colors, to find Section 108.
A black scarf was wrapped snugly around her neck, but it was already slipping. Loose strands of hair framed her face as she shouted with her hands cupped to amplify her voice.
Ella .
My chest tightened under the pads.
And then the whistle blew.
We sprinted out, the roar of the crowd crashing over us like rugged surf.
When the defense was called out, I lined up wide, the toes of my cleats digging into the painted sideline and my breath steaming into the cold air.
The receiver across from me grinned like he already knew he had me beat, like swagger alone could outplay coverage.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his smirk widening. “Long night ahead for you, freak.”
If he thought that’d get a rise out of me, he had no idea who he was dealing with.
I said nothing, just locked my eyes on his hips because they never lie. Heads fake and arms swing, but hips tell the truth about where a man is going.
The ball was snapped, and I was on him in two steps, shoving him in the chest and forcing him off course with my forearm. His route was shattered before it began. The quarterback looked, hesitated, and tucked the ball.
Dom exploded through the line, his helmet colliding with the quarterback’s pads and his shoulder snapping into his ribs.
The sound carried over the roar, and a couple of guys actually winced.
The quarterback went down in a heap, the whistle blew, and Dom was already screaming in his face. “That all you got? Soft! I’m barely warmed up, motherfucker!”
Some of our teammates clapped Dom’s helmet, who grinned like a wolf who’d just found a fresh kill.
I jogged back to the huddle in silence. My eyes briefly flicked up to the stands again. Ella was on her feet, clapping hard, her cheeks red from the cold.
We were on second down now, thanks to Dom.
As the ball was snapped, the receiver I was covering cut inside sharply. I shadowed him step for step, my eyes locked on his and my breath steady.
This time, the quarterback fired quickly. My hand flashed across his, batting the ball down as turf pellets sprayed up around us.
The receiver cursed. I straightened up with a flat expression.
Too fucking easy.
On third down, Dom crouched low outside the tackle, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Fifty-two, you look tired already! Need me to get you a juice box? Want me to slow down?”
The guard snapped something back, but his voice shook.
At the snap, Dom swam under the block, ripping his shoulders free and slicing his arms through the air. He launched himself at the quarterback again, his helmet slamming into the other man’s chest.
The pass sailed wild and incomplete.
Dom jumped up, arms spread wide, screaming, “That’s how you fucking do it! Remember my name!”
He slapped my shoulder pads when we came off the field. “You see me, bro? He didn’t know what hit him!”
“If I hadn’t seen it, I definitely would’ve heard it,” I deadpanned.
By halftime, the score was almost tied at 7–6. It was a tight fucking game.
The locker room smelled of sweat and adrenaline; the coaches were yelling, and the players were shouting over each other.
I sat with my back to the wall, my helmet on my knee, and water dripping down my chin.
I wasn’t focusing on the whiteboard diagrams or the plays. The only thing occupying my thoughts was her .
How she jumped when Dom got the sack, hair flying. How she cupped her hands and screamed when I broke up the pass, her voice swallowed by the crowd but still the only one reaching me.
She didn’t even know that every snap, every tackle, every ounce of control wasn’t for the draft or the team. It was for her.
By the time we reached the third quarter, they had stopped testing Dom. They started throwing my way instead. Big fucking mistake.
Curl routes, fades, quick outs. It didn’t matter. I pressed tight, rerouted them, and forced the quarterback to hesitate. Every incomplete pass tightened the noose.
Dom never fucking shut up. He was in everyone’s ear: opponents, referees and even his own teammates.
He was a constant barrage of mocking, laughing, and daring anyone to shut him up. Nobody did, even though I really, really wanted to.
But I also knew that while I thrived in silence, he thrived in chaos, and I wanted this win.
By the fourth quarter, we were up by four. The offense stalled, so it came down to us on the last drive. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
I lined up wide again. Across from me, the receiver was breathing hard, his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He smirked as if he had one more big play left in him.
When the ball was snapped, he burst forward, feinted left, and cut hard inside. The quarterback’s eyes were locked on him as he threw before the route finished.
I saw it, and my muscles coiled before I sprang forward.
I broke under him, arms out, and the ball smacked right into my fucking palms with a satisfying smack of leather.
Interception .
The crowd erupted, and I tucked the ball before taking off, my legs pounding as I weaved through bodies. I was fifty yards from the end zone when they dragged me down, but it didn’t matter.
The game was over.
My teammates swarmed me, their helmets crashing into mine, and Dom screamed loud enough to drown out the band.
But I didn’t actually hear or see any of it.
My whole world narrowed to Ella in the stands with her hands thrown high and her pretty face framed by wisps of glossy hair.
Screaming my name, her voice cutting through the air so sharply, I could feel it even from here.
That image seared hotter than the lights, than the scoreboard, than the win itself.
In the changing room, pandemonium had ensued. Dom was gloating, the reporters were buzzing, and my teammates were pounding each other’s backs and shouting about rankings.
Thankfully, they knew better than to touch me.
Perched on the bench, my helmet at my feet, sweat dripping down my face, I focused on breathing evenly and calmly.
On the inside, I burned .
I’d dominated on the field, but she was the only victory I cared about.