Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Playoffs
The playoffs have arrived. The electric atmosphere of warring teams suffuses the whole stadium, and one mistake might ruin everything we've worked for all season.
Regan is somewhere in the crowd, along with all the parents.
Regan got box seats for this event, thanks to Coach Ernie, so they'll get an amazing view.
More than a game is at stake. The Bigfoots haven't made it this far in the playoffs in eight years, yet here I am leading the charge against the Devils, a team that's had our number for the past three seasons.
Not this year. Our chance at greatness has arrived.
And this time, it's war.
I immediately spot Ivan Brasher. He glares at me with familiar disdain.
The Devils' star linebacker has made it his mission to knock me out of every game we've played against them this year.
Today will be no different. But the Bigfoots can handle anything the Devils throw at us. Their defense is tight. Too tight.
Ivan barrels through our offensive line. I sidestep, narrowly avoiding him, and tuck the ball while sprinting toward the sideline.
Regan holds up a sign: Go Bigfoots! Kick some Devils ass!
My wife is always my best cheerleader.
I give her a quick wave. Twenty yards of open field stretch before me when a flash of red and black appears in my peripheral vision.
Brasher the Crasher. Coming in hot.
I spin away as he lunges, his fingertips grazing my jersey. Ivan snarls a curse.
"GO MIKE!" Coach Ernie shouts.
The end zone is still thirty yards away.
"On your left!" someone shouts, warning me.
Twenty yards to go.
Fifteen now.
The opposing team's best player rampages toward me, taking the perfect angle to cut me off.
Ten yards.
A big guy from the opposing team dives for my legs. I hurdle over him and soar through the air, then crash back to earth, stumbling but remaining upright as I cross into the end zone.
Touchdown.
While the crowd goes wild, I spike the ball so hard it bounces above my head, then I fall to my knees. First blood has been drawn.
"Hot damn, we did it!" My teammates swarm me with helmet slaps and shoulder bumps.
Brasher is glaring at me from midfield, his chest heaving, helmet off, jaw tight.
As I return to the sideline, Coach Ernie slaps my arm and...grins. He's never done that before.
"Good start, Hannigan. But it was just one score," he reminds me. "You haven't won the game quite yet."
"That was one hell of a run," Eddie Jenkins tells me, dropping onto the bench beside me. "But Brasher looks ready for battle."
"His bullshit doesn't faze me."
The Devils' quarterback, Liam Carson, jogs out with a cocky stride. The guy has an arm like a cannon and a smirk that makes me want to tackle him.
Their running back barrels toward our right side. Our rookie linebacker, Tanner, meets him head-on.
Just as I begin mentally preparing for our next drive, I glimpse of Regan in the grandstands.
She knows what this game means to the whole team and me personally.
After years of dreaming I might find something more in my life, a passion outside of football, it finally happened.
Regan has become my biggest supporter. I smile at her, and she smiles back, waving from the grandstands.
The figure skater who swore she'd never date a football player has now married one.
After several more plays, I give my guys their new orders. "They're expecting us to ride the momentum with another run. So, let's hit them with Spider 2 Y Banana."
Everyone nods in agreement. That formation is designed for quickly passing the ball to another player. It's a crucial element.
The Devils have shifted their tactics. Ivan has moved closer to the line, practically salivating at the chance to flatten me.
I fake the handoff to our running back, confusing the Devils, and spot Jenkins quickly advancing.
During halftime, Regan sneaks into the locker room to give me a little pick-me-up. No, she's not about to screw me. My wife wants to kiss me for luck. She leaps into my arms for a steamy kiss. The guys razz me, but I don't care. Regan can kiss me anytime, anywhere. She's my good luck charm.
"Get a room, you two!" Jenkins holler.
I set Regan down but keep my arm around her waist. "We both know you're jealous because you don't have a girl."
Jenkins rolls his eyes.
Regan kisses my cheek. "You were incredible out there. Don't let Brasher get to you, Mike. I prefer you my husband in one piece."
"I'll do my best."
Ernie shouts, "Two minutes, people! Sweetheart, you need to leave."
The team enjoys renewed energy as Coach outlines our strategy. I'm only half-listening, my mind already on the field. Glory is so close I swear I can taste it.
Now it's time to take down Brasher and his thugs.
The whistle blows, signaling a return to the field.
I grip Devin's shoulder. "Listen, rookie. Brasher will be all over me, which means you'll have space. Make it count."
"I won't let you down, Captain."
My gaze flicks to the family section, where Regan is now back in her seat with both sets of parents. I can tell they're screaming for the Bigfoots.
As we line up for the first play, Ivan smirks.
Brasher the Crasher lives up to his nickname. He bulldozes through our best players, and I have barely a second before he reaches me.
I sidestep at the last minute. "Too slow, Brasher!"
Carstairs makes an acrobatic catch before tumbling out of bounds.
Twenty-seven-yard gain.
I peel myself off the turf, feeling like I've just been slammed head-on by an angry buffalo. I flash a thumbs-up to Devin, who's getting mobbed by teammates.
"Lucky throw," Ivan snarls as he passes by me.
With the next play, Ivan slams his massive frame into me, driving me into the turf so hard I swear I feel my organs rearranging themselves.
"Stay down," Ivan snarls while spittle flies from his lips.
"Get...off...me," I wheeze, shoving him with what little strength I can muster.
Ivan sneers.
The referee throws a flag---a penalty---but the damage is done. I'm struggling to get up when the team doctors rush over to me.
"Stay down, Mike," our head trainer, Adino Easom, says while kneeling beside me. "Let's make sure nothing's broken."
"I'm fine," I insist, though the pain in my side suggests otherwise. I wave off the trainers and struggle to my feet. The throng roars its approval. No way will I give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing me carted off.
Coach Ernie blows out a gust breath, his eyes narrowed, as I limp to the sideline. "You okay to keep going?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I wince as our medical team pokes at my ribs. The pain isn't blinding, and the scoreboard reminds me of what's at stake. We're still up by three, but the Devils are finding its rhythm.
"Two minutes," the head trainer tells Coach, eyeing my ribs with professional suspicion. "We need to check you out."
"We don't have two minutes," I growl, pushing his hands away. "The Devils will adjust. We need to capitalize now."
I glance at the stands and catch a glimpse of Regan's worried face. Beside her, my parents look equally concerned. I grit my teeth and stand up straighter, giving them a thumbs up I don't entirely feel. But I was telling the truth when I said I can handle it. That angry buffalo won't kill me yet.
"Tape me up," I tell the trainer. "I'm going back in."
Coach Ernie grabs my facemask, pulling me close. "Don't be a hero, Hannigan. We need you for four quarters."
"Trust me, Coach. I can do this. The pain is already subsiding." And that's the truth.
While the medical team works their magic with athletic tape, wrapping my torso tight, the Devils regroup. Ivan struts around like a peacock. The jackass delivered a dirty hit, not the Super Bowl trophy.
"Are you good?" Jenkins asks, eyeing the rapid mummification of my torso.
"Never better," I grunt through clenched teeth. Brasher won't take me out of this game.
I wink at Regan, and she blows me a kiss in return. But I bet she's torn between wanting to cheer and wishing she could drag me off the field herself.
"Didn't expect to see you back, princess," Ivan says. "Thought you'd be crying to the refs by now."
"Talk all you want, Brasher. The scoreboard doesn't lie."
The Devils go in hot, exactly what I'd hoped for. Ivan Brasher charges at me, but the pain has become an irritant rather than a barrier, and I have no time to think.
The fourth quarter is a blur. With four minutes left, we're up by twenty-four points. Coach signals from the sideline that I should take a knee to preserve my body and run out the clock. The smart play. The safe play.
Screw safety.
We're up thirty-one points. The final minutes tick down in a haze. The Bigfoots sideline grows increasingly jubilant as reality sets in. We are going to the Super Bowl. My first one ever.
The final whistle blows.
Players rush the field, coaches embrace, and somewhere amid the chaos, Matthews and Johnson hoist me onto their shoulders.
Holy shit! We did it!