Page 33 of Draft Pick

“You ready?” Lincoln roared, grabbing me by the pads and lifting me with a feral grin. “Let’s do this!” He put me down and fist-bumped the rest of the O-linemen, prowling the tight space and reminding me that I was glad he was on our team.

Lincoln might be a softie with his friends, but he was a freight train willing to mow down anyone in his path on the field.

McKinley walked into the locker room, shoving a piece of chewing gum in his mouth like it owed him money before launching into his pregame version of a pep talk. “First game of the season and you know what that means — we set the tone, we meet the expectation. There’s a lot of excitement out there in The Den, and we aim to deliver what they came to see.”

He pointed in my direction, “Offense, make it happen. Keep your passes tight and on point. Don’t go fucking around when it matters most. Keep your head in the game and execute. You’ll deliver.”

To the defense, he said, “Make their lives miserable with every inch they try to take. I want them crying to their mamas by the time this game’s over, you hear me? Let’s go!” He clapped and gestured for us to take the field, and we filed out, a large mass of muscle, intent, and single-minded focus.

We jogged out, and the stadium roared, banners flying, and television cameras zooming in on us as we took the field. The Wolverines were in the conversation this year, and every major sports network interested in the D1 rankings was here to document the season.

NFL coaches quietly had their eyes on their favorites, and it mattered how we performed. There were no “off” games or opportunities to fuck around because each play could be the one that either makes or breaks careers.

San Jose State put a good amount of money behind their football program, between the booster program and the administration, we drew talent to the field. Texas and California ran neck and neck for the No. 1 spot when it came to putting D1 athletes in the NFL, and I planned to add to that number.

My gaze rose to the stadium, grinning at the sheer number of human bodies waving towels, screaming, applauding, and ready to have a good time. Was Starlie up there? Checking out what all the football hoopla was about? I was selfish enough to hope she was up in the stands, ready to watch me play, even though I hadn’t earned that privilege.

No, don’t go there. Not today. Focus on the game.

I shoved all thoughts of Starlie from my brain and tuned in, getting in the right headspace. I stretched my fingers, making sure they weren’t stiff, and hopped up and down on my toes, getting the blood pumping.

The marching band filed off the field, and it was time to get it done!

There was something about football that flipped a switch in my brain. It didn’t matter what was happening before the start of the game clock, the minute we were on, nothing else mattered. I was a machine — focused, driven, and determined.

A reporter for a college sports mag once called me “a brilliant strategist capable of making split-second decisions with precision” because I could switch up without batting an eye, my natural-born instinct never steering me wrong.

Sure, I had losses, but our team had an enviable record, and I wasn’t so humble that I didn’t attribute a large part of that success to me and my crew.

Me, Zay, and Lincoln were going places, everyone knew it.

We probably wouldn’t end up on the same teams — we accepted that someday we might be on opposing sides, but that was just the way of things.

We’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

Until then, we were part of an athletic machine that everyone wanted a piece of.

The Bulldogs wouldn’t give us a win on a silver platter. We knew going into the game that it would be a grind — and we weren’t wrong.

By half, we were limping into the locker room to regroup, a touchdown behind. The game was brutal. We were evenly matched in talent and skill.

It would come down to who wanted it more.

McKinley found us and started his usual spiel that I tuned out, using my mental tricks to get myself centered and renewed. By the time we returned to the field, we’d found our second wind. We were determined to wrench victory from the jaws of the Bulldogs at any cost.

And we did.

The stadium erupted in a wild cacophony of applause and wild cheering as we roared with victory off the field. I chest-bumped with Zayden and did our signature victory handshake, which sent the crowd into a frenzy. Music blared over the sound system, celebrating our triumph with a mash-up of classic rock and metal.

This was what dreams were made of — the stuff of legends. At this moment, all the drama faded away, and I was riding high on endorphins.

I held my fist up, thanking the crowd, then jogged off the field and into the locker room.

Accepting good-natured ribbing and high-energy slaps on the ass from teammates, I stripped my pads and strode naked for the showers. I stood under the spray, closing my eyes as the water washed away the sweat and grime from the game but not the pain of being sacked twice. McKinley would break down who was at fault for that embarrassing play when we reviewed the game film — but that was Monday’s problem.

Zayden joined me at the bay of shower heads, grinning from ear to ear. “Man, that was sick! That’s what I’m talking about!” He grabbed the soap and started scrubbing away the grime. “A bunch of us are heading over to The Blue Jay for a few beers. You down?”

“Hell yeah,” I grinned, ready to throw down and let loose. “I’m down.”

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