Carter
What a rush. I've just been notified that I've made the All-Star team for the first time in my career. The level of excitement is insane; I can hardly put it into words. Finding this out right before the Hawks’ first playoff game in years is surreal.
I still can’t believe I’ve made it this far.
In my short career, I’ve only made the playoffs once, and we didn’t even win.
I would do anything for a win, even just one.
We’re favored in this round, the wild-card game, but that doesn’t mean the win is a guarantee.
Kansas City is a solid team, and they finished just two games behind us, which is minimal in football terms.
I turn around abruptly and realize it’s General Manager Carlos Hernandez. He looks at me with a smile and says, “Ready for today? Are you going to bring us a win finally?”
I smile and say, “Is that even a question? We’re about to demolish Kansas City.”
He grins. “That’s what I like to hear. Do you mind coming to my office for a second? I want to have a quick chat. And don't worry, it's all good news.”
I follow him, with slight nerves, but tempered excitement buzzing through me. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but is this actually happening? Am I really about to get a contract extension? What if I don't like the numbers? Will I still accept it anyway? I have no idea.
We step into his enormous, well-lit office, and I take a seat. Carlos rolls his chair around the desk so he’s next to me, with a sheet of paper in hand. I can feel myself blushing from the close proximity.
“Carter,” he says, “I want to tell you this in person before the game. Not because I think it’ll help you today, but because I want you to know immediately how all-in we are with you, and how much we appreciate you.”
He continues, “1,100 rushing yards. 500 receiving yards. 35 catches. 10 touchdowns. Are you fucking kidding me? And now you’re an All-Star. You were fantastic this season.”
I look at him, eyes wide with excitement.
“I’m going to be honest,” he says. “When we traded a sixth-round pick for you, we did not expect this level of production. But wow, were we wrong. And with that, I want to show you an offer we believe is great.”
He slides a thin white sheet of paper on the desk, then stands up. “I’ll give you a minute to read it over. No pressure to answer now, as I assume you’ll want to talk with your agent before putting pen to paper.”
I nod and smile as he walks out. The door closes, and I look down at the paper. My jaw drops, and I read: Four years with an annual salary of eleven million dollars.
My heart pounds. This means I could play for the Hawks through age thirty and make forty-four million dollars. I was expecting, maybe, three years. This…this is beyond anything I imagined.
I pull out my phone and text Nate: I’ll tell you details later, after you meet me by the lockers after the game, but I got the best offer I could’ve dreamed of.
Nate replies almost instantly: Babe I’m so fucking excited for you. Tell me all about it later. Just focus on the game. Go beat Kansas City.
Still reeling from the numbers on the paper, I look up as Carlos strolls back in like he knows exactly how thrilled I am.
“So,” he says, “tell me your thoughts. I want to hear your initial reaction.”
I flash him the biggest smile and say, “This is perfect. I don’t even need my agent here to agree to this.”
He chuckles. “I knew you’d like it. But for formality purposes, let’s definitely have your agent review it first.”
I nod. “Of course. But I’m so excited to be a Hawk for the next four years, and honestly, hopefully even longer.”
Carlos winks. “Now go kick ass today and bring home a win. Keep doing what you’re doing, Carter, you’re amazing. You’re a superstar.”
I shake his hand, practically buzzing with excitement, and head toward the locker room. Time to get ready for the biggest game of the season.
At 1 p.m. on the dot, the Hawks’ kicker boots a beauty that lands at the one-yard line, right in front of the end zone. The New York crowd goes wild because Kansas City’s offense is starting with terrible field position.
I can’t help but feel pumped. A new contract. The playoffs. Everything I’ve worked for. And I even scored four free first-row tickets, at the 50-yard line. I glance behind me, towards the stands, as our defense rushes onto the field and I spot Nate, his twin Evan, Mel, and Paul.
They’re all jumping up and down. Nate catches my eye, blows me a kiss, and winks.
I catch the kiss playfully and blow one right back.
Miller smacks my ass hard. “Pay attention! Marcus just got a fucking sack in the end zone; a safety!”
I spin around just in time to see it, then jump on Miller in pure excitement. Coach walks up behind us and says, “Relax. We need more points.”
After a decent punt from Kansas City, we start on our 20-yard line.
First play: Miller throws a 20-yard dart through the middle to Jack Sawyer, who’s tackled immediately.
Second play: handoff to me. I bounce outside to the right and pick up 10 yards.
We’re rolling, with strong motivation. I can feel the momentum.
The next play is another handoff, where I rush up the middle for 20 more yards. We’re unstoppable.
Then comes an amazing fake handoff, which Miller fools the entire defense.
Briggs is wide open on the right side, catches the ball at the 15, and trots his way into the end zone completely untouched.
We all pile onto him, screaming. Briggs does some ridiculous dance moves and makes a fool of himself, but I’m here for it.
It’s his touchdown celebration, he should act as absurd as he wants.
We jog off the field while our kicker puts us up 7–0.
On the sideline, I rush up to Marcus, tap his ass, and say, “Get another safety for us, thanks babe.”
He smirks and winks. “Anything for you, boo.”
The rest of the half flies by in a blur. By the time the second quarter game clock hits zero, we’re up 17–0. We have full control of the game. I look up and see Nate and the others celebrating, with beer flying everywhere.
We head into the locker room, jumping and hollering, until Coach raises a hand.
“Relax. We’re up 17, not 100, we need more,” he says, tone sharp.
He launches into a ten-minute speech about staying focused and never giving up.
It feels like forever before we finally head back out, ready to receive the ball.
Kansas City’s kicker shanks it out-of-bounds, free yards for us, and we start at our 40-yard line.
Miller glances at me and flashes a signal, which I know will be another fake handoff.
I nod, acknowledging the plan. He calls "break", then hikes the ball.
He fakes a handoff to me and fires a screen pass right back in my direction.
I pull it to my chest, cut left, shake two defenders, and stiff-arm a third.
I finally go down after I sprint for a 30-yard gain.
Feeling bruised but ecstatic, I pop up and jog back to the huddle without a care in the world.
The next play is another handoff to me, where I make a quick cut to the right and charge ahead for 15 more yards. I’m completely winded and trot off for a breather.
Coach pats my helmet and says, “You’re killing it out there. Get some oxygen, we’ve got this.”
I grin. “Put me back in the next play.”
He nods. “You got it.”
The next play, Miller fakes a handoff to the backup running back, then tosses the ball backward to Briggs, who lobs it deep to a wide-open Miller in the end zone. Miller dives, catches it just before the goal line, and rolls in untouched.
The crowd loses it, and I look over and see Nate going wild.
Our kicker nails the extra point, putting us up 24–0. We’re putting on a clinic.
Miller sprints to the sideline with the rest of the offense. I smack his ass and yell, “Are we going to shut this fucking team out?! Let’s fucking go!”
I catch Coach giving me a sharp side-eye, not loving the jinx. And maybe he’s right to worry, but not this time. The rest of the game flies by without any competition. The fourth-quarter game clock strikes zero, and it's over. We win. 30–0, a complete shutout.
The crowd is deafening, with fans jumping and screaming. The team floods the field and piles on top of each other, celebrating the Hawks’ first playoff win in nearly ten years.
I finished the game with over 150 yards from scrimmage, which is a fantastic stat.
My legs are dead, but my adrenaline’s still soaring.
Next week’s game won’t be easy, as we face the number two seed.
They are a better team, on paper, but I am more confident than ever. I’m just soaking in the moment.
In the locker room, everyone’s still amped. Miller shouts, “Drinks on me later!”
Marcus jumps in, “Nah, dude, drinks on me!”
I cut in. “Fine. Marcus, drinks are on you!” We all burst out laughing.
I change quickly, with pure excitement to see Nate, whom I arranged to meet near the lockers. As soon as I step out, I spot him leaning on a nearby wall. I rush forward and kiss him hard, wet on the lips.
“Babe,” he says breathlessly. “Congratulations. You won…and the contract?! We need to celebrate.”
I nod, grinning. “We’re all heading out after this. You down for some late afternoon drinking?”
He smirks. “Hell yes. Can the others come?”
“Obviously,” I say. “Go tell them. I’ll meet you guys out front, we’ve got a private table waiting. Pretty sure Miller reserved it.”
He kisses me again and takes off, sprinting down the tunnel. And just like that, the best day of my football life keeps getting better.
The four of us make it to the neighboring sports bar, called Hawks Den, which is just a short walk from the stadium. We pass dozens of fans along the way. Some jump on us with cheers and high-fives, but most pull back after a moment, recognizing we want to celebrate with each other.
I walk in with Paul, Mel, and Nate. We head toward the back, where a roped-off section is reserved for the team.
A group of coaches, including Coach McCormick, and about half the roster are already there, standing around a cluster of tables surrounded by vodka bottles, beers, and enough booze to get an entire team drunk.
As we make our way in, Miller spots us and pulls me and Nate into a hug. I glance back and see Paul and Mel talking with Lisa, Miller’s girlfriend, so I know they’re good.
Nate turns to Miller and says, “Dude, congrats. Now you better win next week.”
I add, “Right? We better win. Throw me a damn touchdown.”
Miller smirks. “Dude, how about you get open sometime?” I slap the back of his head lightly, and he laughs.
Then he leans in and says, “Okay, so…rumors are flying that you’ve got a contract on the table.”
Before I can answer, Marcus rushes over. “Excuse me, is this true?”
I nod. “Four years.”
They all erupt at once. “Holy shit, dude!”
Marcus throws his arm around me. “Guess what, I just signed a three-year extension.”
Our eyes go wide, and the four of us cheer.
Marcus looks straight at me. “Does this mean we’re teammates for at least the next three years? Please tell me you’re going to accept the offer.”
I grin. “You have no fucking idea. I would’ve signed it right there, but the general manager wanted my agent to review the contract first.”
Before anyone can say anything else, Miller grabs a bottle of vodka, pours four quick shots, and hands them out.
“To contracts, shutouts, and next week,” he says.
We all down the shots, and Nate turns to me, already flushed with excitement, and says, “Let’s get fucked up.”
I kiss him on the cheek. “I’m already halfway there.”