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Questions erupted.
We didn’t answer any.
We stood in line, broad shoulder to shoulder, our hands crossed in front. We lifted our proud chins and stood in solidarity, fourteen men out at once in the NFL.
That photograph, that moment, will go in the history books. We could feel it.
Then silently, we left the room, one by one, while Ruby became our spokesperson. It seems The Pact had been hiding her as their secret weapon all along.
Word, of course, spread like wildfire.
Colt and I weren’t even on our team’s bus, waiting to take us to the stadium for the game, before tens of millions knew, including our teammates.
I stepped on the bus before Colt. Under my black tailored Dior suit, I was sweating. But I lifted my chin, ready for hateful glares, cruel jokes, or disgusted eyes that wouldn’t even meet mine.
It was the moment I feared the most.
The one that kept me silent for so long.
But Malik Goodwin stood up and started clapping. Then David Martinez. Then Patrick Smith. Then Coach. The entire bus gave us a standing ovation.
Yeah, it fucking choked me up. Colt too. From our teammates, we got hugs and back slaps instead of hate.
But from others? We know what’s coming, too.
“Rise up!” Malik shouted. “And let’s win a motherfucking Super Bowl!”
We’ve been focused on the game ever since.
Should I be worried we’re ten down at the half?
Yeah.
All season, I’ve felt it in my heart. I’ve felt the joy and love on the field.
It’s just a game.
I tell myself when I’m in the pocket, and huge defensive linemen aim for me, trying to score a hit so hard that I’m on Injury Reserve or worse.
But hell, no, I won’t let them. I’ve fought too hard to make it this far. Ice baths with Colt. Heat therapy with Blair. Acupuncture and sheer will have me pushing my right shoulder to the limit. It feels like hot razors slicing my tendons every time I throw.
Still… I fucking throw, and we win.
But today, when we took the field, I didn’t know what to expect.
I saw a sea of sixty thousand people. And maybe it was all in my head because their noise usually sounds like a jet or a trumpet; it depends on the stadium. I’m used to the cheers and jeers, but this time, it sounded different. It felt different.
It was different.
It’s not just a game.
Atlanta’s flags and colors were smeared with Philadelphia’s. From where I stood on the gridiron, they filled the horizon. I expected that.
But then I saw the rainbow flags. Then I saw the cruel homemade signs. “BRONSON BLOWS HAWKE.” “HAWKE WIDE RECEIVES BRONSON.”
You get the idea.
No, it’s not just a game. It’s not just my last game.
