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Fuck. I’m not ready for this season to end this way.
“All right, boys,” Mason, our QB, tries to get us pumped. “It’s been a long fucking game. I’m tired, sore, and freezing my balls off. Let’s get our shit together and put these motherfuckers away, so we can go home, get warm, and get laid.”
Some days, it’s harder than others to get the guys worked up for the last few plays.
Today isn’t one of those days.
You can see it in their eyes.
We need this win.
Mason turns to me and smacks my helmet. “Sinclair—you’re going to be the workhorse we ride to the finish. So fucking buck up and get ready. The ball’s coming to you.”
He looks around the huddle with a thunderous clap. “Ready... Break.”
And it’s on.
I move into slot position, second in from the end of the line, ready to run through this shit-talking fucker across from me.
Let him talk shit. This ball is mine, and he’s never gonna touch me.
Mason and I are in sync, like two kids playing catch in the backyard, dreaming of a future in the NFL. A future most men never have the opportunity to enjoy. One I fucking love. And maybe this game just reminded me why.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see our center snap the ball, and I take off out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter straight down the field.
I’m twenty yards down before I look over my shoulder and see the beautiful fucking spiral arcing into my hands.
The defensive back pulling my jersey tries to intercept.
He’s got no chance.
I’m taller. I’m faster. I’m stronger. And I’m fucking better.
In a move so beautiful, it’s gonna be on everyone’s recap tomorrow, I catch the ball and beat his ass another thirty yards down the field, dragging him across the goal line as the clock runs out, and we tie up the game.
Mason points at me from where he’s been tackled to the turf, and I point back.
We fucking did it.
We’ve got one play left, and the guys and I are on the sidelines looking through what’s turned into a whiteout of snow as our field goal kicker takes his stance for the extra point.
We all hold our breath until the ball goes through the uprights.
“The rookie from Tennessee sets up for the extra point.” The announcers call out, and we all hold our breath as the kid kicks.“The ball is up... and the point is good. The Kings win the game. The Kings win the game. The Philadelphia Kings are the NFC East Conference Champions, and they’re going back to the Super Bowl. In a season muddled with injury and leadership changes, our Philadelphia Kings have managed to pull it together once again and show us why they’re the team to beat every time we doubt them.”
This game is the greatest goddamned game in the world.
And I’m a fucking king.
Thank fuck, Declan doesn’t make me do the press conference. We’re all well aware of what the questions would be if they put me in there and how salty the press would get with me when I refuse to discuss my father or my relationship status with Caitlin.
Not an option. No matter how much people want to know.
Fuck them.
Instead, I shower, change, and text Caitlin.
Callen
