Chapter 45
Nik
The suite feels too clean and too far away from the field.
The room hums faintly with the roar of the crowd, every cheer muffled like I’m underwater.
I shift in my seat, good knee bouncing, an ache of not being down on that field clawing at me.
Noelle squeezes my arm, but her eyes stay on the game. On them.
The week leading up to tonight was insane. It was full of nerves, excitement, love for each other, hate for each other, and jealousy on my part. It’s been just under a year, since we were all sitting on that same couch, expecting to go to the same team.
What a ride it’s been.
I can’t put into words how things have changed and how it continues to change week by week. Looking back, it's nothing but a blur, but living it was fucking awful.
August 2007. I was four years old, stepping onto a field that would feel more like home than my actual home. I had no idea I’d find my two best friends for life. I had no idea the twists and turns the game would take me on, the people I’d meet, the people I’d learn to avoid.
Cut to December 2025. I had no idea Week 16 of my NFL rookie year would be the last time I’d step foot onto a field in uniform.
We’re on our way. Win this game, and we’re locked in.
It already feels like a done deal. I can almost see the Rookie of the Year award in my house, the Super Bowl ring on my finger.
But we aren’t settled. The clock is counting down, and though we still have two quarters to play, panic creeps in.
And when panic shows up, people get hurt.
The ball’s in motion, and my instinct takes over, but I’m playing frantically.
I’m not playing mindfully; I'm playing with nerves. My feet push off the grass, bodies collide, our pads smack, my team yells, the crowd cheers. I’m in love with this moment, but then someone yells out, “Get it, Warrior!” and my mind flickers.
There’s a picture of Eva smiling when we’re kids, of Mom cooking us dinner, Dad having a catch with me, the smell of roasted lamb wafting through the air. Then Mom and Eva both standing next to me on draft night, of Noelle’s voice saying words that can’t be unsaid.
I break through the mess of defenders, but as I push off one, another gets me from the side.
I never saw him coming, but he saw me, and I was sandwiched.
My cleat plants wrong, just a little too deep in the turf, and it twists.
I hear a pop and then an electric-like bolt of pain explodes through me, to the point my heart skips a beat.
It hurts so bad. I go down hard, the field not cushioning me one bit.
I roll to my side as the noise of the game fades to a low hum.
“Papas! You hurt? Bro! Fuck!” The play stops, and trainers rush in.
Teammates crowd me, but all I see is black.
I squeeze my eyes shut, doing my best not to puke right here, and not just from the pain.
I already know what happened. This isn’t just an injury. It’s THE injury.
I tore my ACL. There’s going to be plenty of physical rehab, plenty of pain pills, surgeries, too, but I already know I’ll never be the same.
Once this happens, it’s downhill. Am I a liability now?
Yes. Will I get re-signed? Sure. Will I see field time?
Most likely not. No one’s going to take a chance that this could happen again or that I’ll ever make it back to one hundred percent ready to play.
I used to think the game was forever, that it would always be waiting for me.
It was in my blood, part of my personality.
It defined me. But it’s gone now, at least in the way I know it.
There will never be another helmet, another jersey.
There will be no thunder from the crowd, no cheers from my team.
Now, it’s just me and this body that doesn’t do what I built it to do anymore.
I can coach, sure. I can pour myself into play details, break down film, teach a rookie how to read a blitz before it outruns him. But standing on the sideline will never feel like standing in the huddle with my brothers, the only ones who knew what it meant to give your whole body for a game.
That part is over.
But, Noelle. With her, I feel the weight shift.
She pulled me from the dark; she pulled me from the other side of life that was threatening to drown me.
As we sit here and watch my two best friends battle it out for a ring, a game I expected to be fighting for, her hand finds mine, grounding me in a way no cheering crowd ever could.
You ask who’s saving me? She is. She hasn’t flinched once at the broken pieces, the pieces I’m trying to put back together while I figure out what's next. She only sees who I am and what I can still become.
Football was my life, my first love. It’s what made my heart race and calm slowly, all at once. But my heart has a new beat now. Maybe with her, I can figure out what that actually looks like.
I don’t know where football fits anymore. I just know it’s not everything and certainly not compared to her.
So, I let it go, not all at once, but enough to take the first step into whatever comes next.
“Okay, Jim, we’ve got Drillers with a four-point lead. Soba has one last shot. What do you think?
“I think Soba has a chance to make history. From last seed to Super Bowl Champs? This is some underdog story.”
“Let’s see if he was worth the hype.”
The announcers are coming through loud in our box, but the crowd is louder.
The energy is electric. I feel it flooding through me as I watch the television pan to Loving.
He’s standing calmly on the sideline, hands hooked into his shoulder pads, but only I know the fire running through him right now.
Movement on the field draws my sight back to The Rage.
I watch Soba line up his team. He’s waving his hand, making minor adjustments before he takes his position.
He calls the cadence, claps, and the snap is fired.
The Drillers' defense is on them quickly, blocking any possible route. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Pressure coming—he’s got to get rid of it—”
Soba dances back and cuts left, avoiding a defender. His offensive line is doing well to hold them, but the Drillers are covering every open man. Soba has no choice but to launch it. He pulls the ball back to his ear and lets it fly. It’s a perfect spiral and sails to the right side of the field.
“He’s going deep! Down the sideline!”
Time seems to slow, and I try to stand but am reminded why I’m up here and not on that field.
I lean forward, the receiver Soba throws to is running, stretching every inch of himself, trying to beat the throw.
The Drillers' corner is right there, hot on his heels.
They both jump for the ball, fingers tangling as they collide midair.
“Tipped—no—HE’S GOT IT! HE’S GOT IT!”
“Den paízei! No fucking way!” I shout out, half-laughing, half-not believing what I’m seeing. “Lucky bastard threw up a Hail Mary!”
Scottie is jumping up and down while Valentina stands with her hands half-covering her face.
We watch in awe as the receiver bobbles the ball, trying to hold it tight to his chest, stumbling along the sideline, dancing just inside the white line until he hits that end zone, the corner coming down on top of him.
One ref’s arms shoot up, signifying a touchdown, while the other throws his sideways, signifying no catch.
The stadium is rocking, and the confusion of seeing the throw, the catch, and the unknown outcome is too much.
I jump up, balancing on one leg, while Noelle holds me steady.
Just then, two security guards come in and escort Scottie and Valentina out of the box and head down onto the field.
This is the last play; this is going to decide it all, and they’ve got the girls heading down to be with their men.
“That’s a catch!” I yell. “What are they looking at?”
The refs come together, talking quickly before ducking under the hood, watching angles on replay, as teammates from both sidelines filter onto the field, both arguing for a different outcome. The coaches are pulling them back; there’s so much commotion.
Cameras zoom in on both Loving and Soba, split screen.
Both have eyes glued to the Jumbotron which shows the refs discussing the play.
The team mills around them, talking animatedly, desperate for the right answer for their team.
I don’t know how to feel. I know what I saw.
I know it looks like a catch to me, but what outcome do I want?
They both made it to the biggest sports stage, but there’s only one winner today.
And it’s going to be impossible to celebrate without feeling the loss, as well.
The stadium hushes as the ref takes the field.
“After review, the receiver had both feet down in bounds and maintained control of the football as he crossed the line. The ruling on the field stands. It is a touchdown.” He raises his hands straight up, palms inward, signaling a touchdown, then points toward the goal line, spotting the ball for the kick.
Our box goes wild, and though we’re all upset for Loving, we cheer for Soba because, in actuality, we all made it. Three kids who started with a dream in the backyard are now living that dream.
The scoreboard changes. Rage 27, Drillers 25. The announcers are dumbstruck, the crowd is insane.
“Oh, my word… Soba has taken the lead! With seconds left on the clock, the underdogs have stunned the Drillers!”
“I don’t know how we got here, Jim, but this is absolute cinema! Nicholas Soba and Nico Loving, two-thirds of the Trickie Nickies that captured the sports world, had everyone talking, doubting, and cheering–”
“And look at this outcome! It doesn’t get any better than this.”
The Rage line up for the kick, but it doesn’t mean anything.
The teams are already spilling onto the field, as confetti rains down.
I watch with tears in my eyes as my two best friends meet in the middle of that field, hugging, desperate to hold onto each other, not wanting to come up for air and live in this bubble for one more moment.
Cameras spin around them, reporters gather, ready for that first comment.
And when they both come up for air, they look towards my box.
I stare down at them, my palm pressed against the glass, and watch as they both throw up three fingers, spreading them apart, then pressing them together, symbolizing the three of us.
“How do you feel?” Noelle asks quietly as we stand together, arms around each other.
I smile and wipe my eyes. “I’m not really sure.” She chuckles and squeezes me tighter. “It’s like being told to pick a favorite kid. I don’t think I can do it.”
“Well, since you put it that way, how about you pick our favorite kid?”
I look at her, her eyes twinkling with mischief, her lips tugging into a smile while she waits for me to catch up. “Our favorite–do you mean–Noelle, what do you mean?”
She bubbles over and tears spill now. “We’re pregnant, Nik. You’re going to be a dad!”
My heart explodes, and I pull her in for a hug, kissing her and holding on just as tight as my two best friends are, not wanting this moment to end either.