Chapter 23 - Donovan
Donovan
Stella and I spend the next two days sending the naughtiest texts and filthiest pictures we can think of.
No matter the time or place, nothing is off-limits.
She sent me a picture of herself on the kitchen table, followed by a text that said, “Your dinner is served.”
I swear my cock’s been hard for two fucking days. Neither of us is letting the other come. Not yet.
All’s fair in love and foreplay. Her words echo in my head like a challenge I’m not allowed to win. I can’t wait for next week. The second I get to Agave Hills, I’m going to bend her over my knee and spank that perfect ass until she begs me to stop… or begs me not to.
But for now, it’s game day.
Friday Night Lights. The biggest one of the season. If we win tonight, we’re going to the championship.
I’m up early. I make a quick omelet, wash it down with too-hot coffee, and head into work. I want extra time to rewatch highlight reels from the team we’re up against—Richfield Preparatory.
After a hearty team lunch, we ease into prep with midday drills. First, film. We review some of Richfield’s major plays and point out their key threats. The guys are locked in—focused.
Next, we move to stretching. Some light yoga to keep their bodies loose and their minds sharp. Mental prep is everything on a night like this.
After showers and dressing up in full game day attire—suits, ties, nice shoes, the whole nine yards—the team grabs their gear and boards the bus.
We’re headed to the University of Southern Virginia’s pristine football stadium. It’s the only venue big enough to hold both schools’ fan bases.
Three-quarters in, and the game is neck and neck. Every yard is a war. Every play is earned. It could go either way.
Then the fourth quarter hits—and with it, a cold, familiar fear.
The kind that grips the back of your neck and doesn't let go. I see it happening before it fully unfolds. Richfield’s linebacker breaks through our defense like a bullet, and I can’t breathe.
He wraps Maddox up and drives him into the turf, hard.
Too hard. The ball slips from his hand, but that’s not what I’m watching.
He isn’t moving.
For a split second, I’m seventeen again—flat on my back, staring at the sky through the bars of my helmet, knowing before anyone said a word that it was over. My chest tightens. My stomach turns. Not again. Please, not again.
The play is called Dead. Medics rush the field, and I’m right behind them. They assess Maddox, and after a tense beat, he pushes to his feet. Cleared, but benched for a few plays with a possible head injury.
The rest of the game passes in a blur until Maddox throws the touchdown that seals the win.
You can hear the crowd erupt in cheers as the team celebrates together. Handshakes and hugs are given to Richfield—they did play a hell of a game.
One more week. One more game, and then I am on a flight to see my future wife, which means I have to look her father in the eye and tell him we are engaged.
I spend the weekend at home, texting Stella and video calling her every chance I get.
We’ve been talking from the moment we wake up until we fall asleep, like we’re trying to make up for every second we ever spent apart.
We even video chat while we work out or eat—it doesn’t matter what we’re doing; we just want to be with each other in whatever way we can.
On Sunday afternoon, I am cooking grilled cheese on sourdough and serving it with tomato soup.
Stella’s doing yoga in her living room, wearing a sports bra that makes her tits look utterly devious.
She’s on video chat, screen propped up, completely unaware that she's single-handedly ruining my focus.
She drops into what I think she called “downward dog,” when Ansel walks behind her and thrusts her hips forward in a dramatic, sexual innuendo. Stella laughs but loses her balance, her leg kicking out and knocking Ansel off her feet. The two of them collapse in a pile, laughing hysterically.
And meanwhile, I’m hard. My traitorous mind is picturing them kissing, tangled up in something that has nothing to do with yoga.
Just as I'm slipping into the fantasy, the fire alarm blares behind me. I burned my fucking grilled cheese.
On screen, both of them crawl toward the phone, wide-eyed and grinning like gremlins, watching me try not to set myself on fire.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, fumbling with the box of baking soda like it’s a live grenade. I toss it over the flames, the hiss loud enough to compete with the alarm.
Eventually, the fire’s out, the smoke thins, and the alarm finally shuts the hell up.
I turn back to the phone, breathing hard, face probably covered in shame and smoke. Both girls are still staring at me—eyes wide, mouths twitching with amusement.
“Hey, Chef Hot Mess,” Ansel says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to make it edible.”
I just stare at Ansel, completely blank. Nothing comes to mind—not a single comeback. I’m still standing there with smoke in the air and baking soda on the stove.
Then Stella’s voice cuts in, smooth as sin.
“Hey, D… you know your cock’s hard, right?” she says, all fake innocence and glittering eyes. “What got you all hot and bothered?”
Stella and Ansel both fall back onto the floor, absolutely losing it—full-on hysterical laughter echoing through the speaker like I’m the punchline to some inside joke I never meant to tell.
And I just stand there. Burned a sandwich on the stove. Hard dick in my sweats.
Drenched in shame and, apparently, comedy gold.
The next week, Stella and I are both running from sunup to sundown. We don’t have a moment to breathe, texts are sporadic, and video chats are nonexistent.
Virginia Prep is full of boisterous energy. The winter holidays are approaching, which means everyone is finishing up their finals. The whole school is excited about the championship game.
Coach Headstrom has been fielding calls left and right, trying to get interviews from us and the team.
We are reviewing the final red zone plays for the fifth time when my phone buzzes on the desk. I glance at the name and nearly drop the thing.
Coach Lion
I answer it quickly, trying not to sound as surprised as I am. “Coach?”
His voice hasn’t changed—still gravel and authority, like whiskey poured over stone. “D’Angelo. Heard your boys made it to the big one.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah. They earned it.”
He hums, then gets right to it. “I’ve been watching your QB. Maddox. Kid’s got vision. Pocket presence. He reads coverage like a junior in college, not a high school senior.”
I lean back in my chair, heart suddenly in my throat. “I know. He’s special.”
“He’s more than special,” Lion says. “He’s what we need. I want to offer him a full-ride scholarship to Huntsville. The second this season ends, I’m sending the official letter.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. My chest tightens—pride, disbelief, all of it.
“He’ll lose his mind,” I finally say. “Are you sure about this? You haven’t even met him yet.”
“I don’t need to. I trust your eye. You taught him, shaped him this season. That’s enough for me.”
I swallow hard, nodding even though he can’t see me. “I’ll tell him. After the game.”
Lion chuckles. “Make sure he wins it first. Then tell him, you just changed his life.”
Coach Halestrom and I sit there in utter disbelief. Most of our guys started pulling offers back in their sophomore year. Hell, some had recruiters knocking on their door before they even hit varsity. But Maddox? He was the wild card.
A transfer. Senior year. Straight out of a nowhere town in Mississippi, with a beat-up helmet and a quiet chip on his shoulder.
He didn’t think he had a shot—not really. Not coming in this late, not without the camps, the spotlight, the name.
And now? A full ride. From Huntsville University. From my former coach.
Halestrom leans back, still shaking his head. “Kid really thought he was invisible.”
I glance toward the practice field, where Maddox is running plays like his life depends on it.
“He’s about to find out just how seen he really is.”
As Friday approaches, we decided these kids know what they are doing.
They have been putting in the time and practice.
So instead of running drills, watching highlight reels.
We go to the auditorium and watch The Blind Side instead.
We have some good, healthy snacks and drinks, and everyone is having a fun time.
After the movie, we all get dressed in our game day outfits and head back to the University of Southern Virginia’s football field.
The team makes their walk of fame through the cheering crowd, soaking in the noise, the energy, and the weight of what’s ahead. They head straight to the locker room.
I stand in front of them—game day suits now traded for uniforms, helmets resting at their feet. I look around, not just at players, but at my boys. My family. The room is quiet.
“I want you to look at the man standing next to you.”
They do.
“Some of you have been here since freshman year. Some of you transferred in, earned your spot like hell. But every single one of you has bled for this team. You’ve run the miles, taken the hits, watched films until your eyes burned, and shown up every single day.”
“I don’t care what the scoreboard says tonight. Not really. Because I already know who you are. You’re the hardest-working, most disciplined, most dangerous team I’ve ever had the privilege to coach.”
I pause. Let it sit.
“But make no mistake—this is your moment. Your shot. The last damn wall between you and the championship.”
“So when you walk out there, walk like you own it. Like your cleats were made for that turf. Like every play is yours to take. Because it is, you’ve earned this.”
“If something goes wrong, you fight. If they get in your head, you lock in harder. And if one of you falls, you pick each other up—because that’s what we do.”
“What happens out there tonight will stick with you for the rest of your life. So leave it all on the field. No fear. No doubt. No regret.”
I take a breath, eyes sweeping the room.
“I’m proud of you. More than I can say. Let’s finish this the way we started—together.”
Beat.
“Let’s go win a goddamn football game.”
And that’s precisely what they do.
The final score is 34–21.
With tears in our eyes and sweat still drying on our skin, we make our way onto the field to celebrate—not just a win, but a legacy.
Coach Halestrom and I pull Maddox aside, right there on the field. It only feels right to tell him here—with the crowd still roaring, the lights still blazing, and his parents standing beside him.
“Son,” Halestrom starts, his voice thick with pride, “we are so damn proud of what you’ve accomplished this season. You might’ve had a short run here, but you’ll always be a Falcon.” He wraps Maddox in a firm hug, then looks to me to finish it.
I step in, my chest tight with pride. “We got a call on Wednesday. Huntsville University. Coach Lion wants you on his field this fall—he's offering you a full-ride scholarship.”
Maddox stares at me, eyes wide, like he isn’t sure he heard me right.
I glance at my watch. “He’s drafting the paperwork now. It’ll be in your inbox in the next thirty minutes.”
Maddox’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Then his knees hit the turf, and both of his parents drop down beside him, wrapping him in their arms.
And in that moment—under the stadium lights, with the championship trophy still untouched and the scoreboard still glowing—I swear I’ve never been prouder.
I turn to Coach Halestrom, still buzzing from the win but already thinking about where I need to be next.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay to celebrate with you and the team,” I tell him. “I’ve got a flight to catch. I need to be home to celebrate with Stella tomorrow.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, eyes warm despite the fatigue. “Go get her, Coach. You’ve earned that, too.”
I nod, gratitude tight in my chest, and take off across the lot—heading straight for my car, adrenaline still pumping, my heart already in Agave Hills.