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We’re down 28-31.
We need a touchdown.
I scan our opponents and all defensive eyes are on Colt. Their aim, too. They won’t let him move a yard. Goodwin’s been suffocated by defense all quarter as well.
We’re running out of plays. We’re running out of time.
I scan the end zone, “Love, love, love,” chanting in my head. With my heart pounding, my vision tunnels to a girl with her parents. A smiling girl with black hair, wearing my number four Atlanta jersey, waving a rainbow flag.
Colt believes in signs.
So do I.
Smiling as we huddle, I call the play, “A-town flip. Raven. Raven. Birds Fly Home.”
To our offensive line, it’s code for what to do.
For me, Hawke, and Blair—it’s everything.
I take the snap and fall back, seconds running down. Inhaling, I hold the pocket one last time, acting like my right shoulder, all swollen and on fire, is twitching to throw to Goodwin on my left.
Then, I pivot right like I’m going to throw to Hawke instead, while Hawke and Goodwin run like decoys in opposite directions, drawing Philadelphia’s defense their way while our offensive line clears the way for me.
They clear the path for me to put my nose down, my nostrils flaring, my jaw clenched, my muscles exploding as I fly up the field, running home with the ball tucked in my grasp.
I sprint fourteen yards, smirking when I see a defensive tackle. I love this. With a front flip, I jump over him, landing in the end zone for the winning touchdown. It’s just a game. It’s just my old trick from high school. Pointing to the girl with the rainbow flag, I wave and pump my fist for her.
For everyone like us.
Then it’s a blur.
Players storm the field. We pile on. We celebrate. We hug, ripping off helmets and slapping pads. Then I find Philadelphia’s players and shake hands. A few seem to hate me, but I don’t care.
The press surrounds me. I’m ready for the after-game interviews. I know what to say and repeat it over and over.
“Man, it’s about our team tonight,” I huff. I smile and praise, “It’s about our players, our organization, and this incredible game. I’m proud to talk about the rest later, but let’s talk about how they crushed it tonight.”
I won’t answer questions about Hawke. He won’t answer about me. The Fourteen have spent too long planning and practicing this. We know what to say. We’re in control.
It seems like forever until, finally, I’m seeking Blair by the sidelines. Staff and security have her waiting for me.
Her smiling red lips. Her cute glasses. Her sexy black hair. Her T-shirt with our names on it.
That’s my woman.
I run to her. I pick her up, spinning her around, kissing her for all to see, just like I was dying to that night when she opened her dorm door to me.
When she opened my heart forever to her.
“I love you, Beau. I love you,” she shouts, tears welling in her silver eyes. Even though I’m soaked in sweat, she doesn’t care. She wraps her arms around my grimy neck as cameras surround us.
“I’m so proud of y’all,” she huffs against my beard, so I whisper in her ear, “It’s no joke this time, Blair Monroe. You have my devotion. I’m gonna love you forever, I promise.”
I kiss her pillow lips again and know we’ll share an incredible night and an amazing life together, but it’s not complete. Not until we turn, looking for him, and there he is, just as brawny, sweaty, and proud as me.
I hold my arms open for Colt. With our pads still on, we practically smush Blair between us, but she laughs.
Yes, when players win, they hug.
