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The stadium erupts.

TRY!

I swear I feel the ground shake.

Toby steps up for the conversion, still breathing hard. The wind has picked up, and he takes his time, eyes locked on the posts.

He strikes. The ball curves beautifully, sailing straight through the uprights.

24-21, Tigers.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

The sideline is electric. The momentum has swung back in our favor.

Seattle throws everything they have at us in the final minutes.

Their forwards hammer the gain line, testing our defense. Every tackle is a bone-rattling collision.

Callum O’Reilly and Luka Petrovic are absolute beasts, taking hit after hit, refusing to break. Dominic Carter rallies them, shouting commands, leading the charge.

Seattle works their way inside our 22.

The tension is suffocating.

One final surge.

Seattle’s number eight picks and drives, barreling forward.

Dominic meets him head-on.

The impact is thunderous.

Bodies crash, boots scrape, and then⁠—

The ball spills loose.

Malik Dembélé dives on it.

The ref blows his whistle.

Full time.

Tigers win. 24-21. The players collapse where they stand. Some raise their fists to the sky. Others drop to their knees, sucking in gulps of air, sweat dripping onto the turf.

The noise is unreal. Pure, unfiltered euphoria.

I exhale, pressing a hand against my chest to calm my racing heart.

This is what I live for.

And yet, as the players begin shaking hands, as the adrenaline begins to fade, I feel it creeping back in—the weight of something unfinished.

Because somewhere on this field, Graham is waiting for me.

And now, there’s no avoiding what comes next.

The final whistle still echoes through the stadium when I see it—the slow build of tension, the kind that always leads to something breaking.