Page 52 of Through the Flames
The guard snapped something back, but his voice shook.
At the snap, Dom swam under the block, ripping his shoulders free and slicing his arms through the air. He launched himself at the quarterback again, his helmet slamming into the other man’s chest.
The pass sailed wild and incomplete.
Dom jumped up, arms spread wide, screaming, “That’s how you fucking do it! Remember my name!”
He slapped my shoulder pads when we came off the field. “You see me, bro? He didn’t know what hit him!”
“If I hadn’t seen it, I definitely would’veheardit,” I deadpanned.
By halftime, the score was almost tied at 7–6. It was a tight fucking game.
The locker room smelled of sweat and adrenaline; the coaches were yelling, and the players were shouting over each other.
I sat with my back to the wall, my helmet on my knee, and water dripping down my chin.
I wasn’t focusing on the whiteboard diagrams or the plays. The only thing occupying my thoughts washer.
How she jumped when Dom got the sack, hair flying. How she cupped her hands and screamed when I broke up the pass, her voice swallowed by the crowd but still the only one reaching me.
She didn’t even know that every snap, every tackle, every ounce of control wasn’t for the draft or the team. It was for her.
By the time we reached the third quarter, they had stopped testing Dom. They started throwing my way instead. Big fucking mistake.
Curl routes, fades, quick outs. It didn’t matter. I pressed tight, rerouted them, and forced the quarterback to hesitate. Every incomplete pass tightened the noose.
Dom never fucking shut up. He was in everyone’s ear: opponents, referees and even his own teammates.
He was a constant barrage of mocking, laughing, and daring anyone to shut him up. Nobody did, even though I really,reallywanted to.
But I also knew that while I thrived in silence, he thrived in chaos, and Iwantedthis win.
By the fourth quarter, we were up by four. The offense stalled, so it came down to us on the last drive. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
I lined up wide again. Across from me, the receiver was breathing hard, his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He smirked as if he had one more big play left in him.
When the ball was snapped, he burst forward, feinted left, and cut hard inside. The quarterback’s eyes were locked on him as he threw before the route finished.
I saw it, and my muscles coiled before I sprang forward.
I broke under him, arms out, and the ball smacked right into my fucking palms with a satisfying smack of leather.
Interception.
The crowd erupted, and I tucked the ball before taking off, my legs pounding as I weaved through bodies. I was fifty yards from the end zone when they dragged me down, but it didn’t matter.
The game was over.
My teammates swarmed me, their helmets crashing into mine, and Dom screamed loud enough to drown out the band.
But I didn’t actually hear or see any of it.
My whole world narrowed to Ella in the stands with her hands thrown high and her pretty face framed by wisps of glossy hair.
Screaming my name, her voice cutting through the air so sharply, I could feel it even from here.
That image seared hotter than the lights, than the scoreboard, than the win itself.
