Page 19 of The Brotherly Shove

I feel the rubber hit my fingers, and like muscle memory, I tuck it close to my chest in my left hand before I jump on Lennon's back, wrapping my right forearm around his neck. I have full control of the ball as it's sandwiched between my chest and Lennon's back. I feel the weight of half a dozen men on top of me and the hands of my teammates pushing at my back side as we surge forward. It might be one second or it might be ten lifetimes before Lennon goes all the way down and whistles are blown. Slowly but surely, people get up and off of me and I can finally lift my head and look around. The turf below us isn't green.

Nope, not green at all. It's Knoxville Crushers orange.

We're in the end zone.

We fucking did it.

I roll off of Lennon and allow my teammates to help us up. I check the scoreboard to be sure, and yup, we fucking got the six points. I turn and find Lennon has thrown his helmet off and is coming at me with his arms outstretched. My smile is so wide I'm afraid I might split my cheeks open with the force of it as I jump into his bear hug. He wraps one hand around my waist and use the other to reach up and pull my helmet off. Once it hits the ground, he presses his lips to the top of my head.

He's kissing me. Lennon Griffith is kissing my head on national television, in front of millions of people.

And just like that, the weight on my chest feels heavier than the metric ton of men I just had on top of me. I can't freaking breathe.

I close my eyes and try to memorize the feel of lips as he plants kiss after kiss after fucking kiss into the sweaty mess of hair on my head. My stomach bottoms out and tears threaten to spill from my eyes. Tears of joy or pain, I couldn't tell you. All I know is that Lennon's arms are around me, his mouth is on me, and I don't deserve it. I don't deserve his kindness. I'm not worthy of it.

I don't even realize that Lennon is still carrying me until he drops me to the bench on the sideline, where I am immediately met with a cooler full of Gatorade being dumped on my head.

On the field, our kicker scores the extra point. The punt team comes out, but it's pointless. Knoxville only has three seconds before it's all over.

Lennon and I just scored the winning touchdown in our first game playing together in the pros. Even with how supremely awful I've made things between us, this moment is something that nothing and no one can take away from us.

"We're back, baby!" he yelps, shaking my shoulders. "I told you we could fucking do it. We're unstoppable, B. We gotta celebrate. Let's hit a bar after press. Drinks on me, man."

"I can't," I say as I shake my head, and his face drops immediately. I quickly backtrack.

"Not because I don't want to, Len. I really can't. I've got a flight to Philly in a few hours. It's Ma's birthday this weekend so I got special permission to skip the team plane ride tomorrow morning," I tell him. Even if I wasn't leaving, I don't know if I'd be able to keep my shit together enough to spend time with Lennon. I'm riddled with too much guilt over the way I left things between us still.

"Ah," he says, still not looking any happier. "Tell her happy birthday for me, yeah?"

"I will," I say as Lennon walks away from me, and we go back to cohabitating on this team together while pretending that the other doesn't exist.

CHAPTER 12

BREAKER

Now

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

I drag my carry on bag behind me as I weave through the crowds at Philadelphia International Airport, pushing through the terminal and trying to ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach as I'm overwhelmed by the smell of greasy, overpriced fast food being shelled out all around me. I should've eaten on the flight, but the only snacks they had available were those weird Biscoff cookies, and as disgusting as those things are, I know if I took a bite I'd fall victim to a cookie coma 30,000 feet over the Midwest. I pass through security exit and make a beeline to the escalator that will lead me to the SEPTA regional rail train station.

Yup, even a man who is just secured his first win in the NFL has to take public transportation sometimes. The price of an Uber from the airport to my childhood home in DelCo is highway robbery, and Ma says she would rather drink a gallon of ocean water on the Jersey shore than deal with the traffic on I-95 on a Friday morning to pick me up.

So, yeah. SEPTA it is for this guy.

By some miracle, the trains are running on time and one is set to arrive just moments after I step on to the platform. That literally never happens.

Bless the little victories in life.

I grab a seat and tuck my bag between my legs, thankful that I packed light as I watch people heave their luggage onto racks above our heads. The conductor swings by and I hand him a ten dollar bill, and in exchange he tucks a hole punched yellow slip into the slot in front of my seat. I gotta say, ten bucks feels like a real swindle on the part of the city. My student pass in college cost me $250 for the year and gave me unlimited trips on the regional rail. These single tickets are how they get ya.

I bury my face into my phone until the train reaches Center City, where I take my ticket and transfer to the West Trenton line headed towards my stop at Philmont. My lucky streak keeps going, as this train is one of the newer models with individual seats and very few knife holes in the upholstered seat. The train car is relatively empty considering the mid morning time. Had I landed a few hours earlier, I'd probably be packed in with commuters heading across the Delaware River for work.

Even still, with only a handful of other passengers, some dude gets up and plants himself next to me. He clearly doesn't understand the universal sign of 'my headphones are on and my eyes are down, do not interact', because he starts poking at my shoulder. I don't want to be rude or get murdered, so I push my headphones down off my head and around my neck.

"Sup," I ask the guy with a polite head nod. He's visibly excited about something, practically bouncing in his seat next to me.

"That's you, isn't it?" He asks, pointing to the small screen by the door that shows advertisements and news highlights. I glance up at the screen, and sure enough the damn thing is showing footage of the press conference where Lennon and Ispoke about the winning play last night. I can barely wrap my head around the fact that a train in Philly is showing press highlights from a California team, let alone that my face is on each and every one of the tiny screens in the train car.

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