Unplanned Play (Nashville Players #1)

Chapter 1

MADDOX

There is one universal similarity among every young kid who grew up playing football in America. And that’s at one point in your life, you not only thought about, but you also likely acted out, winning the biggest game of your career on the grandest stage in professional football.

The practiced touchdown run. The dance that would immediately ensue. The postgame interview. What song you would sing after the game in celebration.

It’s “Livin’ On A Prayer” by Bon Jovi, for those who are wondering.

But no one talks about what it’s like waiting on the sideline for the minutes and seconds to count down in that championship game.

What it’s like to have to sit and watch your offense try to score the biggest touchdown of the team’s season.

Maybe no one talks about it because it’s the most nerve-racking, panic-inducing, out-of-control feeling you’ll ever have as a professional athlete.

I should know. I’m living it right now.

As a part of the defense for the Nashville Fury, we did our job tonight, especially in the fourth quarter. I had an interception that I brought back for a touchdown in the second. Our defense has only given up two other touchdowns and a field goal.

As for our offense, they’ve kept right with them. But we are the two best teams in the league. Everyone knew this was going to come down to who had the ball last.

Now, we just need to make this count.

Six seconds on the clock.

Tie ballgame.

For all the marbles and the right to call ourselves the best in the league.

I feel one of my teammates grab my hand, but I don’t look to see who it is. All I can do is watch and stare at the play starting to unfold.

This isn’t my first time waiting for the clock to expire with a championship ring on the line.

Yes, this is my fourth year in the league, and every one of those years I’ve been to the biggest game of the season, which is rare as hell.

Yet, every ending has been different. The first two we were soundly in the lead, so the celebration started about midway through the fourth quarter.

Last year, when we lost, it was a feeling neither I nor the rest of my teammates ever wanted to feel again.

And then there’s this year, the definition of a nail-biter.

Having a chance to win three championships in my first four years in the league is absolutely absurd.

There are guys who have played in this league for ten-plus years who have never gotten to this game.

And they aren’t slouches. These are good players—future Hall of Famers even—who will never have the chance to get a ring and can call themselves the best in the world.

Never have the chance to yell "I'm going to Disneyland!” into the camera with confetti raining down on them.

Then there's me—about to be twenty-five years old, drafted by the Nashville Fury in the fifth round of the draft with every pundit and expert saying I was too young and too small to play defensive back in professional football. That sure, I was a great college player—I won the top award for defensive players in my third year of college before going pro early—but my skill set wouldn’t translate to the big show.

But like I have my entire life, I proved them wrong.

I made the Fury's fifty-two-man roster. I was a starter by midseason. Fast forward to now, I’m on a team that’s in the middle of building a dynasty, I finished the year leading the league in interceptions, and I have the second-highest jersey sales on the team.

Suck on that, experts. This is what dreams are made of.

That is, if we can score one more touchdown.

The clap of my offensive teammates’ hands from the huddle shifts my focus back to the game.

I’m not exactly sure of the play call, but I have to think our coaches are trying to get the ball to our tight end—and my best friend—Linc Kincaid.

Not only has he been our go-to offensive weapon all season, he’s the best tight end in the league.

If Miami doesn’t think that the ball is going to him, then they don’t deserve to be here.

“Are they really only putting one guy on him?” I ask myself, and yup, they are. They are only lining up one defensive back against him. Fucking dumbasses. Do they realize they’ve just handed us the game? This is what I call fuck around and find out in real time.

Before Miami can change anything else, our quarterback, Bryce Donald, starts calling out his cadence. One of our receivers starts going into motion. Miami’s defense locks in.

Here we fucking go…

I suck in a breath as our league MVP quarterback drops back. He's trying not to give away that he's looking for Linc, but I know this play, and that’s exactly what he’s doing.

I stop blinking as my head turns to the end zone, Bryce’s pass sailing through the air. It’s a short pass, but I swear time has nearly stopped and this whole play is happening in slow motion.

The cornerback defending Linc is staying tight on him, but Linc has the positioning and the height advantage.

Plus, Bryce and Linc have practiced this play a hundred times.

I know that because many times I’ve been the guy doing everything I can to deflect the ball away.

Like this cornerback, I also don’t have the height advantage.

I’m not short, but Kincaid is six-foot-five with a wing span of a passenger jet.

Bryce knows where to put it, and Linc knows how to catch it.

And unless the defender can swat it away, we’re about to win this game.

And there it is.

No swat.

Perfect catch.

Feet down.

No fumble.

Touchdown Fury.

Ballgame.

Those are my last calm thoughts before I throw my helmet in the air and scream as I run onto the field, straight toward Linc.

The noises leaving my mouth can only be described as the combination of banshee and a four-year-old on a Mountain Dew high.

My arms are waving around like the inflatable tube men outside of a used car dealership.

I'm pretty sure I am becoming a running meme as we speak. But I’ll wear it with a badge of honor knowing what me and my teammates just did.

We made history.

Three championships in four years.

“Holy shit! We fucking won!” I scream as I jump on Linc’s back, nearly taking him down. “You fucking did it, bro! You’re a fucking beast.”

Linc laughs as I detangle myself from his back. “Thanks, but we were able to get that last drive because of the defense. You guys played your asses off tonight.”

We bring each other in for a huge hug, slapping each other on the backs, knowing that it was, in fact, a total team effort tonight.

“Tonight’s celebration is going to be fucking epic!” I yell. “I have a feeling I’m going to remember it for the rest of my life!”

Linc laughs and shakes his head at me as the confetti starts pouring from the ceiling of the stadium we’re playing at in Las Vegas. “Celebrating this kind of win in Vegas, it's the stuff guys dream about.”

I slap his pads. “Hell, yeah, it is. You're coming, right?”

Linc gives me a reassuring nod. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

I knew he wouldn’t. Linc might be in love now—and I mean really, really, in love—but he knows a night like this might be the only one of his career.

The man’s been through it in his life; the fact that he’s playing football at all is an achievement.

I know he wants to be with his girl, but he also wants to be with us.

Plus, Ainsley’s a good time. I’m sure wherever we end up we’re all going to have a night we’re never going to forget.

Speaking of, we should probably figure out where we’re going tonight.

And as the self-appointed president of the Nashville Fury After Party Committee, I feel that it’s my duty to make these plans.

Which is what I do mentally as I continue to hug my teammates, grab championship hats and T-shirts from our staff, and do the few on-field interviews I’m pulled in for.

We should probably hit up the stereotypical Las Vegas night club.

Some spot that plays primarily EDM that's going to give me a headache for six days on top of the headache I’m going to have for the copious amount of champagne I'm about to consume tonight. I mean, it’s Las Vegas, and we just won the fucking bowl.

Of course there’s going to be a DJ and champagne.

But what I really have in mind is something a little bit more us. A little more Fury.

A little more karaoke.

It’s the right way for this team to celebrate. It’s what we do. So, yes, we’re going to put in our time at the club. Make our faces seen. Then, when it’s appropriate, we’re going to head to the real party.

I have three songs ready to go right now.

God, it’s going to be fucking epic. The last few times we won, the parties were fucking sick. Bottles. Dancing. Women. Most at the same time. And those games weren’t in Las Vegas, and they were still out of control.

I can only imagine what tonight’s going to bring.