DYLAN:Mama says good luck tonight!
CHASE:You think she’ll ever text?
DYLAN:Only if the world is ending.
JAKE:Tell her thanks, but we don’t need luck.
DYLAN:The team needs something. You’re fumbling that ball like a bunch of rookies.
CHASE:You sure you don’t want to come coach us?
DYLAN:Nah! Kids and horses listen better than a group of grown-ass men.
I take the field with the buzz of adrenaline pounding through my blood and the taste of Serena’s cherry lip balm on my lips. The crowd is a wall of noise, blocking out thoughts of her soft lips and the way her tongue found mine, intimate and exploring.
Across the field, my old team stand ready in their white jerseys. I don’t look at their faces. We were teammates once. We were friends. And we will be again when this game is over, but right now they are the team standing between us and the win. Challenge and tension ripple in the air between us.
It’s week seven and game six for us, thanks to the early bye week. With a 3–2 record—three wins and two losses—we’re nowhere near leading the AFC West—let alone locking up a playoff spot. With that kind of record, even one of the three wild card slots for top runners-up feels out of reach. With twelve games left, including today, every single one matters.
Jake claps a gloved hand on my shoulder as we huddle up, helmets on. Ready. “Show ’em what they’re missing.”
“Planning on it.” The world shrinks to this turf, this team, this ball. My focus razor-sharp.
The referee stalks to midfield. We lose the toss, and the Trailblazers choose to receive. JT lines up for the kickoff, looking almost lazy in the way he steps to the ball. I know better. He’s coiled tight, just like the rest of us. The whistle blows. The ball soars, our coverage racing beneath it, pinning the Trailblazersdeep. They fight for every yard in short, brutal bursts, but our defense answers with equal force, and soon it’s our ball.
I jog onto the field with the offense, pulse steady, focus sharp. The snap hits my hands, the leather of the ball firm and familiar, like an extension of me. This is what I live for. I drop back as Jake streaks down field and Rob goes wide. One of the Trailblazers breaks loose off the edge, charging straight for me. I feel him closing in, fast. But I don’t flinch. I trust the line. The sound of impact roars behind me as I set my feet. One breath. One target. Jake.
I draw back, my whole body twisting with practiced ease, arm loaded like a slingshot. Then I propel the motion forward, arcing my arm through the air, waiting, waiting, waiting for the exact right moment to release. The ball cuts across the sky in a perfect arc, and I swear the stadium holds its breath. Then it drops into Jake’s hands, and he’s already gone, breaking through a safety like he was never there.
Two more strides.
One.
Touchdown.
I slam a fist into the air and let out a yell that’s drowned out by the rest of my team and the stamping feet of the crowd. It’s not just that we’ve taken the lead. Or that I have more to prove on this field against my old team than anyone else right now. It’s that the play felt seamless, like we were in sync, connected in a way we haven’t been so far this season. A way I haven’t been.
Jake leaps up from the touchline, pointing a finger at me. He’s saying, “That was all you.” I point back before turning, my eyes scan the chaos of the sideline—coaches barking orders, players watching on, water bottles flying—and then I see her. Serena. Her blonde hair is in a high ponytail, swinging with every movement. She’s holding her iPad, her posture allbusiness as she directs her cheer team with their sideline routine.
Serena must feel my gaze on her, because she spins around and our eyes lock from across the field. Her smile widens, and I catch the playful way she shakes her head. It’s like I can hear her voice in my ear.Yeah, that was an amazing throw, but haven’t you got a game to win?
I laugh as Jake’s voice snaps me back to reality. “That throw, Chase! You killed it.” He’s jogging toward me, helmet in hand. “Don’t get lost in your head now,” he adds, catching me staring to the sidelines.
I fix my focus back to the game as the Trailblazers line up for their next drive, and I know they’re going to come at us harder than ever. For the first time in a long time, I feel ready. More than ready—I want it. Whatever they’ve got. Knowing Serena is watching doesn’t feel like a distraction; it feels like fuel.
The Trailblazers come fast, hard, and relentless. Any other game this season, it might’ve been enough to beat us. But today we answer with our own fight. We’re fast, precise, and most importantly, connected. And when that final whistle blows, the scoreboard reads 28-17. Stormhawks win.
The stadium erupts, and we gather on the field, helmets raised high. Jake slaps me on the back. “Told you we didn’t need luck.”
“Yeah.” The buzz of the win thrums through me. We were the better team out there today. I keep my head high and my smile wide as we head into the locker room. These are the moments. The times when everything connects, when I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be—with my team and my family—that make everything feel right. These are the moments I live for. The ones that make the weight I carry feel light enough to ignore.
I fumble with the keys to my apartment, my fingers still buzzing from the adrenaline of the game and maybe a little bit from the celebratory whiskey shots Flic gave us. Serena’s leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, a smile playing on her lips as she watches me struggle. God she’s beautiful. She’s swapped her Stormhawks coaching uniform for a pair of dark jeans and a light sweater that hugs her curves. Her hair is loose down her back and her makeup is subtle but deliberate—making those sky-blue eyes look like they could swallow me whole. The beer and the win must be messing with my head, because I haven’t been able to stop looking at her tonight, searching her out in every group.
“You sure you’re sober enough to get us inside, Chase?” Serena’s voice is teasing and playful.
“Oh, I’m plenty sober,” I shoot back. We both know it’s a lie. Finally, I get the key into the lock and push the door open. “But if I wasn’t, I’d blame you.”
“Hey, I’m the designated driver.” Serena steps into my apartment and kicks off her ankle boots before disappearing into the kitchen.