Page 31 of Remember Me

“Mom,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks. “Don't start with that again. We're doing fine just as we are.”

She patted my hand, that infuriating maternal smugness still playing at her lips. “Of course you are, dear. I'm just saying, your father has his speech prepared, just in case.”

“What speech?” I asked, alarmed.

“His father-of-the-bride speech,” she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He's been working on it for about four years now.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Please tell me you're joking.”

“Would I joke about something this important?” she asked, the picture of innocence.

Before I could form a response, the whistle blew for kick off, and the game began. I silently thanked the football gods for the timely interruption, turning my attention firmly to the field.

As the first quarter progressed, I found myself falling into the familiar rhythm of explaining plays to my mother, who despite years attending Tanner's games, still seemed unable to grasp the basic rules of football.

“So that's good, right?” she asked as Tanner completed a long pass down the sideline. “They're moving toward the... scoring end?”

“The end zone, Mom,” I corrected, hiding my smile. “And yes, that's good. If they can get inside the twenty—that's called the red zone—they have a good chance of scoring.”

She nodded, satisfied with this explanation, then immediately gasped when Tanner’s receiver caught a short pass and was tackled hard by two defenders.

“Oh! Is he hurt? That looked painful,” she fretted, clutching my arm.

“He's fine,” I assured her, even as my own heart rate spiked watching him get to his feet. “That's just part of the game.”

As the quarter continued, I found my gaze drifting occasionally from the field to the faces around me—Tanner's mom watching with the stoic pride of people who'd spent their lives in sports; Thea alternating between professional commentary for her podcast and genuine excitement for her brother; Jackson still trying too hard to impress Mr. Joyce with his football knowledge.

In the next box over, I could see the Walker family—the kids jumping and cheering at every play, Reign looking both proud and terrified whenever Devin took a hit.

We were all connected by this moment, this game, these men we loved. No matter what happened on the field today, I knew one thing for certain: we were incredibly lucky to be part of this strange, wonderful extended family that had grown from those days at Covey.

Chapter Eight

Devin

A Super Bowl game felt different.

It wasn't just the crowd noise even if eighty thousand people screaming felt like standing inside a jet engine. It was the weight of it. The way it pressed down, wrapped around my ribs, rattled in my damn bones. Fourteen years playing football, seven in the NFL, and nothing prepared you for this. I'd been in a lot of big games… Rose Bowl championships, play off battles that went to overtime, but nothing ever matched the pure electric current of the Super Bowl.

The moment the Crossbills' defense took the field, I rolled my shoulders, letting the energy settle inside me like a living thing. My helmet felt heavier, my pads more substantial. Every sense heightened until I could practically taste the anticipation in the air.

I glanced down at my wrist, where Delaney and Georgia's friendship bracelet peeked out from beneath my glove. It was a simple braid with red and white strings that my daughters insisted I wear today. “For luck, Daddy,” Georgia said as Delaney tied it with such careful concentration that I didn't have the heart to tell them it might not last through warmups. But somehow, it had survived, a small reminder of what really mattered.

My family.

How the hell did I get here?

The thought flashed through my mind as I scanned the field. From that scrawny kid with a chip on his shoulder to playing in the Super Bowl, living in a house I paid for. My mom’s set up for life now, I covered my sister’s rehab and college tuition, and I still had more than enough to raise my family. It still didn't feel real sometimes.

This was my domain. The field, the lights, the noise. This is where I did my best work and I’d only proven that since getting drafted. Granted, I was getting to an age where I might have to start thinking about retirement, but I’d worry about that next year. This year, the aim was to finally win it all.

Drew McCallister was across from me, standing calm and unreadable behind his offensive line.

He wasn’t just the Rattlesnakes’ golden boy, he was the NFL’s dream. The dude was pushing thirty, with the agility of a quarterback fresh out of college. Retirement might’ve been on my mind, but he had no interest in it.

Drew was one of the best in the league. He was annoyingly good at getting the ball out fast, a little too smooth under pressure, and his throwing motion was so quick it was almost disrespectful. But we'd played against each other for years now and shared enough beers in the offseason to build a reluctant friendship. I knew his tells. The way he lifted his chin just a fraction of an inch when he was about to throw deep. The way he tapped his fingers against his thigh before checking into a new play. The slight shift in his stance when he was setting up a screen pass.

He wasn't getting out of this clean.

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