Page 61 of Hart Breaker

“And Josie is their sister, right?”

“Kick-off time,” Lucas yells, and we all stand.

The stadium is packed with mostly Vegas fans, but there are also more Knoxville haters than New York Knights fans, so the tension in the stands is so thick it’s almost suffocating.

It doesn’t end there; it’s spilled onto the field.

The defenses are brutal, and the offense on both teams have been just barely scraping by.

I’m not sure if it was the kiss, the admittance of feelings, or what it is, but seeing Hudson get pummeled is physically painful. He doesn’t slow down, though; he’s a fucking machine, which is a serious turn-on.

Hudson has scored, and so has Boone, but Vegas has two touchdowns, as well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a game where the kickers have scored more than the players until now.

We’re in the final minute and down by three. I expect to see our kicker take the field to give us a chance to tie it up, but when he doesn’t, I feel sick to my stomach.

We’re on our own forty-yard line, and Cody has taken so many hits tonight that he’s on the sidelines, and they’re working on his shoulder. Another hit may fuck him up for the season.

Vegas’s defense has been shutting down our running game all night, forcing Cody to rely heavily on the receivers, and it’s no secret Hudson is the best.

Cody takes the snap, drops back, and eyes the field. The pocket collapses, and the pressure is on. He scrambles, looking for an opening.

“He’s gotta get loose, gotta get loose!” Roman yells to him.

Just then, Hudson barrels down the sideline. Cody sees him and launches the ball. I’m sure he’s overthrown it, but Hudson seems to put it in overdrive, outpacing the defenders, eyes locked on the ball.

I swear, we are all holding our breaths, watching the preferred arc, but from here, it looks impossible. He’s too far back, and the coverage is too tight.

“Fuck yes!” Nour yells as Hudson leaps, stretching out his hands, and snatches the ball out of the air with one hand, his foot landing just inches from the sideline; he’s barely in bounds. He takes off toward the end zone, and more Vegas defenders are closing in, but Hudson dodges, weaves, and powers through. Then he tucks the ball against him and dives across the goal line as the clock hits zero.

The stadium erupts in a deafening roar—okay, mostly boos, but whatever. Fuck them. Right now, the New York Knights have more wins than anyone in the NFC—hell, in the whole NFL.

And then … all hell breaks loose.

Knoxville fans are tossing trash on the field, dozens of them even rushing onto it, and as I turn to run out, Linda Hart, Hudson’s mom, stops me. “That boy of mine would be very upset if you got hurt.”

Dad calls back from the doorway, “To the Booze Bus, BV fam. We’ll meet you at the airfield.”

“Ryan,” Mom calls after him, and he turns back. “Fuck ’em up.”

We loaded up the bus with all of us, including the Harts, Beth, and her two kids. Luke is the only one of us who stayed back. And let’s be honest, he’s a one-man army—like, for real—so we have nothing to worry about. Nothing.

We take Beth, Ryder, and Simone to their vehicle, follow them out of the stadium parking area, and then head to the private airstrip outside of the city.

My nose is glued to my phone, watching the chaos on the field, but it seems a bit more controlled than it was when we were herded out.

London is on the phone with her sister, Brooklyn Cohen, clearly trying to keep her calm, and Tessa is on the phone with her brother, Alex, telling him what’s going on and asking that he tell BVPD to increase coverage in the town and at the homes of the wives and partners of everyone who stayed back home.

“Well, shit, I was worried you’d freak out about our old man and not give Hudson a chance.” She must see that I actually have no clue what she is talking about because she looks at Nour and says, “My bad.”

“None of you are anything like him. You’re all Linda,” Nour assures her.

She still looks uneasy, and I wonder why.

But then Mom gasps, and I glance at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head.

“I know that nothing means something,” I mumble, looking at my phone and see Hudson Hart, number thirteen, throwing fists. “What are you doing?” Then he’s throwing bodies of shit brown Knoxville fans, and I see him pull Beau Boone off the ground, push him behind him to Logan, and start after another pile. “Where the fuck are the police?”

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