19. Division Championship
Chapter 19
Division Championship
Kolby
T he morning air bites as I step out of Lo’s and settle into Skinner’s ride. He says nothing, and I feel the shift. No music. No small talk. Just silence. Intentional. Dark.
Mentally, physically, emotionally—every part of me shifts into something colder, sharper. The guy who kissed her goodbye an hour ago? He doesn’t walk into stadiums. This one does.
My phone buzzes once. A message.
Coach Cox:
GAME DAY Reminder.
Breakfast window 7:30–8:15.
Tape + treatment after.
Kickoff at 3:05.
You are the front line of this war.
Win the point of attack, and we’ll take them.
I don’t reply. Not because I don’t respect him—Cox is the kind of man I’d follow into a real war—but because words don’t mean much now. Not until the first snap. Not until I put my hands on someone and make them feel it. Feel that the field is mine.
* * *
Breakfast is fuel, not flavor. I sit alone at the edge of the dining hall, hoodie up, head down, earbuds in.
“ Hello darkness, my old friend... ”
The first strum of “The Sound of Silence” hits my bloodstream like a drug. It plays on a loop, over and over. The Disturbed version.
The noise of the team around me fades. All that’s left is muscle memory and breath.
I get taped. Ankles first, right then left. Hands. Wrists. Thumb loop tight. Black Sharpie across the tape, three words.
Never. Look. Back.
Stretch. Breathe. Don’t talk. Don’t blink too long.
By the time we hit pregame meetings, I’ve built a wall so high around myself I forget what daylight feels like. Coaches bark. Hart claps shoulders. Skinner jokes.
I don’t smile. I don’t respond. They let me be. They know this version of me. The one who played D1 like he had nothing else to live for. The one who bled for a shot and plays like someone’s always trying to take it from him, to end him.
By 2:55, we’re in the tunnel, packed tight, shoulder to shoulder. Pastor Josh does the team prayer. I half-listen, and then … the muttering starts.
Not prayers. Not pump-up lines. Just quiet spears thrown at ghosts only I can see.
“Come for me.”
“Try it.”
“Try to hurt him. I dare you.”
“You won’t get through me.”
“Not today. Not now. Not ever again.”
Skinner once asked what I say down here. I told him, “You don’t want to know.”
I keep my head low, flex my fingers once, then again.
The team is announced, and we run out. My cleats grip the turf like they know what’s coming. I’m breathing in sync with the thunder of the crowd. And then the music cuts. The coin is tossed, and we’re first on the field.
I step out—crowd tuned out, wall of silence behind me. A war ahead. And not a single part of me afraid.
I line up in Boone’s spot, mine for the rest of the season, and I will not fuck it up.
I glance at Warren, and he gives me a nod.
Hands flexing, heart pounding so loud I swear it rattles my pads. This is my natural position. It’s not the one I was signed to play, but I will dominate.
The Outriders step onto the field, and right across from me, of course, is Cross. His helmet tilts up, and I catch the snarl behind his visor.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I ignore him. Focus on the cadence. The count. My breathing.
Then he mutters, “Still running, aren’t you?”
My jaw tightens.
“You see that tape on your wrist?” he sneers. “What’s it say— Never Look Back ?” He laughs, low and bitter. “That’s real poetic, Runaway.”
That one lands like a hit before the snap.
I lower my stance, the ball snaps, and I explode through the line like I’ve been shot out of a cannon. The hole opens just enough. One cut. One stiff arm. A second gear I wasn’t sure I still had, and I am gone.
The end zone is ahead of me—green fading into paint, cleats hammering, crowd swelling. For one clean moment, I forget the noise, the past, the weight.
Touchdown!
My first in Boone’s position. My name on the screen.
I never looked for anyone in the stands in an obvious way. I didn’t want to get caught—she wasn’t mine. But now? Hell yes, I look up and spot her immediately. I hold up my fingers and mouth, “ You .” Then I drop the ball and turn.
Cross is right there, shoving me in the chest.
“You score, and suddenly you think you’re the shit? You’re not better than me! You’re nothing, Runaway.”
I shove him back. “Don’t be a dumb-ass rookie!”
“You think she’d be proud of you?” His helmet knocks mine. “Of you ?”
I see red as he grabs my jersey.
Fuck this.
I grab his. A tangle of rage, and years, and everything we’ve never said boils up.
Flags fly.
Whistles blow.
Teammates yank us apart, but I’m still barking. Still seething.
Hart’s in my face now. “Breathe, Grimes.”
Coach T shouts, “Back it down! Grimes!”
Cross is hauled back and to the sideline by his linemen, jaw still moving behind his visor. Me? I don’t look back. I head to the sideline where my team is celebrating the first drive.
“Way to start us off, man, but clean it up. We need you in this.” Coach Cohen pats my back.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
* * *
Third quarter. Tied game. Everything fucking hurts.
There’s blood on my jersey—some mine, some not. My ankle’s been barking since the second drive, but adrenaline’s doing its job. So yeah, it’s denial.
Until it isn’t.
We’re mid-drive, second and short, and I get the ball again—cut inside, lower the shoulder, and just before I hit the gap, Cross is there.
Helmet to hip. Not illegal. Not dirty. Just ... perfect.
Pain shoots down my leg like fire. My knee wobbles, but I plant anyway, spin forward for the extra yard, and hit the ground on my back, breath gone.
The sky swims. I hear Skinner shout, “Yo, Kolby, you good?”
I sit up fast. Too fast. Grit my teeth and nod. I lie, “Good.”
The trainers try to get close. I wave them off. “I’m fine. Tape’s just loose.”
They don’t push. Maybe because my eyes say don’t. Maybe because we’ve all got something taped tighter than it should be today.
Next play, I block. I move slower. Drive off the wrong foot. I can feel it swelling, but I stay in. Because it’s game day. Because Lo’s somewhere in the stands. Because he’s still out there, and I’m not running away.
Same stance. Same stare. Same heat behind his helmet. But he’s getting sloppier. Slower. Pissed.
Fourth quarter, we break another run—Warren hits a seam, fifty yards up the sideline—and Cross is chasing, frustrated, out of position. He dives late at Warren’s knees. Flag flies before Warren even hits the turf.
I’m screaming before I realize it’s me doing it. “You don’t touch my QB like that, you fucking pussy!”
Players swarm around us. Coaches are pulling bodies apart. And Cross? He’s ejected.
Rule 12, Section 2, Article 10(b)— a flagrant personal foul, such as a low hit on a quarterback outside the pocket, with excessive force or clear intent.
He rips off his helmet and throws it against the bench. It bounces once, skips into the cooler. And I know— know —this is it. The moment everything he worked for could crack wide open.
He looks across the field. At me. Eyes wild. Hurt, and furious, and unraveling.
And I’m pissed. Not just because he hit Warren. Not even because of the flag. But because he’s throwing it away. His rookie year. His shot. The one thing we both lived for. And now he’s watching the rest of the game from the locker room tunnel like a goddamn cautionary tale.
I shake it off. Barely. Because Lo told me to win the damn game, and I told her I would.
The game ends, and the Knights win by three.
* * *
Lo meets me inside. “You did it!”
I scoop her up and hug her tight.
“Need him for press, Lo,” Coach Cohen says as he breezes by.
I kiss her first. “That was for you. Be back.”
“Be waiting.” She beams.
The postgame press room is packed. Hot. Loud. Lights too bright, questions flying faster than hits did today. And I should feel good. Two touchdowns. A full game’s worth of reps in a position that isn’t even mine. My name on highlight reels. My stat line on fire. We won. I should feel proud. I should be with Lo . In Lo …
Instead, I’m gripping the edge of the podium, nodding through questions like I’m not already counting the seconds until I can call Coach D and tell him Cross needs help … again and get back to her, to now, right fucking now.
A reporter from The Post leans forward, mic in hand. “Kolby, huge day for you. What’s it feel like stepping into Boone’s role and delivering like that?”
I nod, giving the answer I’ve already rehearsed. “Boone’s one of the best. I’m just trying to hold it down until he’s back. Do my job. Be where the team needs me.”
Flashbulbs pop. Another voice cuts in.
“Talk about the ankle. Saw you limping off the field?—”
“Just rolled it. Tape did its job. I’m good.”
They laugh. I don’t.
Someone asks about the ejection, and I barely get the word “unfortunate” out before I hear it.
“Tell them the truth, Grimes!”
My heart stops, and I see Lo.
I blink toward the back of the room, and there he is. Cross. Shoving past media, face flushed, eyes wild. His hair’s wet, maybe from the shower, maybe from sweat. Security isn’t fast enough. Neither is anyone else.
“Tell them!” he yells. “Tell them everything!”
Ryan’s already pushing through the crowd. Jackson’s on his heels, jaw locked, eyes hard. They get to him quick, drag him back, but not before the room erupts.
“Is that Caleb Cross?”
“Do you know him?”
“Was that personal?”
“Grimes, what’s going on?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
My ears ring. My body’s buzzing, and not from the win.
I step back from the mic.
“I’m done,” I mutter. “That’s enough for today.”
“Go,” Coach Cohen says.
I shove the door open and don’t wait for anyone to follow. Because none of them matter right now. Just her, and she’s not here.
Fuck … I know exactly where she went. I saw it on her face the second Cross started shouting. Not fear. Not embarrassment. Fury.
Lo doesn’t run from messes. She charges into them. And if she’s gone, it means one thing …
She’s going to find him before I do.