Page 51 of Through the Flames
“Let’s fucking go! I want blood tonight! You hear me?” He slapped a lineman’s shoulder pads so hard the man almost stumbled. “You’re mine, big guy! You won’t even know what hit you when I come flying past your sorry ass!”
His voice cracked the air, followed by his laughter, loud and exuberant. Half of the locker room answered him, caught up in the energy and storm he had whipped up.
I didn’t laugh.
Dom’s mouth never stopped, but considering he’d be my brother-in-law someday, I was exercising serious self-control by not telling him to shut the fuck up.
Coach’s whistle pierced the room. Helmets clattered, bodies rose, and the floor trembled under their cleats.
I slid my helmet on. The chin strap snapped into place, and the noise blurred, muffled, like the world itself had been pushed back. There was nothing left except the game.
Except—
I looked up when we filed into the tunnel, past the heavy smoke machine, past the band’s brass shrieking, past the endless blur of colors, to find Section 108.
A black scarf was wrapped snugly around her neck, but it was already slipping. Loose strands of hair framed her face as she shouted with her hands cupped to amplify her voice.
Ella.
My chest tightened under the pads.
And then the whistle blew.
We sprinted out, the roar of the crowd crashing over us like rugged surf.
When the defense was called out, I lined up wide, the toes of my cleats digging into the painted sideline and my breath steaming into the cold air.
The receiver across from me grinned like he already knew he had me beat, like swagger alone could outplay coverage.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his smirk widening. “Long night ahead for you, freak.”
If he thought that’d get a rise out of me, he had no idea who he was dealing with.
I said nothing, just locked my eyes on his hips because they never lie. Heads fake and arms swing, but hips tell the truth about where a man is going.
The ball was snapped, and I was on him in two steps, shoving him in the chest and forcing him off course with my forearm. His route was shattered before it began. The quarterback looked, hesitated, and tucked the ball.
Dom exploded through the line, his helmet colliding with the quarterback’s pads and his shoulder snapping into his ribs.
The sound carried over the roar, and a couple of guys actually winced.
The quarterback went down in a heap, the whistle blew, and Dom was already screaming in his face. “That all you got? Soft! I’m barely warmed up, motherfucker!”
Some of our teammates clapped Dom’s helmet, who grinned like a wolf who’d just found a fresh kill.
I jogged back to the huddle in silence. My eyes briefly flicked up to the stands again. Ella was on her feet, clapping hard, her cheeks red from the cold.
We were on second down now, thanks to Dom.
As the ball was snapped, the receiver I was covering cut inside sharply. I shadowed him step for step, my eyes locked on his and my breath steady.
This time, the quarterback fired quickly. My hand flashed across his, batting the ball down as turf pellets sprayed up around us.
The receiver cursed. I straightened up with a flat expression.
Too fucking easy.
On third down, Dom crouched low outside the tackle, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Fifty-two, you look tired already! Need me to get you a juice box? Want me to slow down?”
