Page 15 of Game Changer

Our return team doesn’t disappoint, either—Diaz gets it to the fifty.

“Halfway there,” our head coach, Trucker Cohen, yells. “Put those numbers up in lights!”

“All right, motherfuckers, they did their job, now we do ours!” Grimes yells.

We all follow Cody onto the field, taking our positions. We know the play and move like a well-oiled machine.

I block out everything else and focus solely on my task at hand. My eyes stay locked on the ball as it’s snapped, and I charge forward, ready to take down anyone in my path, distract them, get their eyes on me instead of the intended receiver—Hart.

The sound of pads crashing together fills my ears as I push through the other players, determined to get closer to that ball. It’s like everything slows down in that moment, every move calculated and executed with precision.

I feel someone grab at my jersey, but I shrug them off without breaking stride. My mind is solely focused on getting into position for the pass since they’re all over Hart.

And then it’s there, right in front of me. Without hesitation, I reach out and wrap my fingers around it, securing it tight against my chest as I barrel forward, toward the endzone, but am stopped at the five.

As we regroup for the next play, Warren calls the play while I catch my breath. My eyes can’t help but wander to the stands again, where I see my little flower with that foam finger waving. I do a little shimmy that tells her she’s got me all wrapped up. Her jumping up and down even more tells me she got the message.

We all take our places, Hart’s to make the first TD, a big foam finger to the league, so to speak. As soon as the whistle blows, we hit it hard. Cody fakes to me but throws a pass to Hart, who’s in the end zone. It’s high, but Hart gets higher. Touchdown!

Hart holds the football like a newborn baby, rocking it gently in his arms as he walks toward the camera, stares straight into the lens, nods once, kisses the ball, and then points up to the stands, where his fiancée is watching. “For you, Brooksie babe.”

Oh shit, I think, knowing his secrets, one he had me swear on everything I wouldn’t let slip, and he just did it, in front of the whole world.

“Bro.” I laugh as I dive onto him. “You just announced to the whole fucking world?—”

“That we’re engaged,” he cuts me off.

Laughing as the rest of the team dives on us, I say, “That’s what that was?”

“Fuck yes!” He laughs.

The next play, we hold them at zero, and the next, they keep us at seven. It’s brutal. They tie it up before the half.

The locker room is buzzing—helmets clanking, breaths heaving, sweat dripping onto the concrete floor.

Coach Cohen walks in slow, deliberate, hands on his hips. “All right, listen up!”

His voice cuts through the noise, and everyone falls silent.

“Right now, we’re sittin’ here tied up. Tied. You know what that means?” He pauses, looking around. “It means we’ve been out there trading punches, not landing the knockout. It means that, right now, on that scoreboard, we’re not winning! And I don’t know about y’all, but I hate that damn feeling.”

A couple of guys nod. Some grunt in agreement.

Coach takes a deep breath then points toward the door. “Out there? We got thirty more minutes of football. Thirty minutes to remind those boys that we’re not equals. Thirty minutes to prove that we are better, that we’re Knights. New York Knights!” He pauses to let it sink in that, yes, we have something to prove, because it damn well feels like it’s more than us against them; it’s us against the whole league. “And if any of you are thinkin’ about playing it safe? If you’re thinking ‘but we’re not losing?’ Let me tell you something—a tie’s a fucking loss until it’s not!”

A few guys chuckle.

Coach keeps going. “You wanna be champions? You wanna walk outta here tonight knowing you took this game, not just hoping it worked out? Then go out there and take it back. Break that tie. Smash it to pieces. Dominate!”

He points at the offensive line. “Big boys, push ’em off the damn ball. I wanna see pancake syrup on the field.”

He looks at the us. “Catch everything. I don’t care if you gotta use your helmet, your legs, your damn shoelaces—bring it the hell in!”

Then his eyes land on the defense. “And you, my nasty, defensive monsters—Finish. The. Damn. Job. I wanna see their QB second-guessing their career choices. I wanna see their running backs thinking about their life choices. I wanna see that scoreboard—our fucking board—lit on our side only!”

The room is louder. Fists pounding pads. We’re all hyped.

Coach nods, stepping back. “We got one half left. That tie? It dies. Let’s go.”

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