Page 47 of The Break Down

We’re down one try, and I know he’s right.

I’m off. My reactions are half a second slow.

My tackles too shallow. My grip not tight enough.

I shake my head, breathing hard, and turn my gaze toward the sideline.

And there she is.

My Red.

Camera in hand, eyebrows drawn together in a tight little frown as she watches the ref check out the last guy I slammed into the turf.

Her expression isn’t angry.

She’s not a groupie or fan looking for the next fella who’s better than me,

No. She’s concernedfor me.

And just like that, the noise falls away.

The roar of the crowd, the slam of cleats on turf, the whistle’s sharp cry—it all fades into white static.

All I see is her.

And I know, deep in my chest, beneath the sweat and pressure and roaring adrenaline that I have to win this.

Not for the team.

Not even for the coach.

For her.

Because if I fuck this up, if I let myself fall too deep and lose my edge, I could lose everything.

My spot. My career. My chance to stay close to her.

To build something with her.

To keep her.

And that’s not an option. Not anymore.

My jaw tightens. I slam my shoulder pads back into place, crack my knuckles, and glare at the opposing line.

Fine.

Let’s fucking go.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN-FINLEY

The fans are in an uproar, clearly upset at their home team’s loss.

But the Rovers? We are celebrating our first win with hearty cheers and roars!

I quickly upload a reel to our socials and am shocked to see the immediate response.

Gaining half a million followers in a few weeks is nothing to some, but these are real fans.

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