Page 14 of Game Changer

The first few notes of “Enter Sandman” begins. I’m not even pissed anymore that my vote for “Kick the Dust Up” or “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere” gets voted down every damn time I suggest it. Even though I don’t consider myself a superstitious man, I’m not trying to fuck with anything we’re doing when we’re on a winning streak.

The tunnel is alive with energy, a steady hum that buzzes in my veins, and I clench my fists as I scrape my cleats against the concrete, something my teammates say makes me look like a bull ready to charge. And I’m not even upset about that. It’s an accurate description for how I feel.

Hart, a wide receiver, is next to me, bouncing on his toes, no doubt amped up more than the rest of us since he was done dirty by the entire league when they benched and fined him for the last couple games after the bullshit in Vegas.

Grimes, running back, is rolling his neck with his eyes closed, lips moving. I asked him if he was praying once, and he saidno. I asked what the hell he was jawing about, and he did the same damn thing—shook his head and said, “I’ll never tell.” I no longer ask.

“Knights, let’s ride!” Warren yells, and we’re off.

As we move through the tunnel, the sound of the fans screaming, sixty thousand feet pounding, their roar, it all swallows us whole and hypes us up at the same time. When we step onto the field, the noise is deafening.

The lights hit my eyes first—blinding, hot, and electric. The field stretches out before us, a sea of green and white stripes framed by the black and gold of the crowd. Thousands of faces blur together, but I know they’re watching, waiting for us to deliver, and there is nothing we want to do but give them that W.

I scan the stands almost instinctually, my heart pounding for a different reason. Section 123, row 1. And that’s where they’ll be sitting every damn game, I hope. I find them almost immediately, like my eyes are magnetized to them. There she is—my little girl, standing on her seat, waving the foam finger I bought her, my number in gold glitter on her face, and the biggest smile lighting up like a beacon of light. And next to her, her mother. Her eyes meet mine for half a second, and I feel like I’ve already won.

I give my daughter the smallest nod, and her arms shoot up in the air like we just won the league. That’s my reason right there. Right. There.

I love seeing both of them surrounded by the Blue Valley babes, or as Lily calls them, the girl “bossesses.” But one is missing—Cupcake.

I glance up at the owner’s box and see she’s with the BV mamas. Is she wearing a hat?

The crowd erupts again as the announcer shouts out our names, and I refocus as I pull my helmet on, ready to put everything I have out there, give the Knights fam a show, earnthe stupid amount they pay me to play this game, and take that W.

We make our way to the sideline, high-fiving the staff and soaking in the energy of the stadium. I can feel my nerves fade as I focus on the game ahead.

My heart races as Cody and Bricks head out for the coin toss. I watch from the sideline as they shake hands with the Cowboys’ team captains. The loud roar of the crowd fades into a distant buzz as I focus on every movement.

The coin flies, and my stomach twists in anticipation. I hold my breath, hoping it lands in our favor. But it doesn’t matter because we’re ready to take on whatever challenge comes our way.

We lose the toss, and they choose to receive.

I smack Joey on the ass as he heads to the field to kick the pig as we all huddle up near the sideline, bouncing on our toes, anxious to get out on the damn field and make that money.

Joey is standing back at the thirty-five yard line, his cleats dug into the turf, spinning the ball on his finger like this is a backyard game instead of a nationally televised season opener as he pops his gum, rolls his shoulders, takes three steps back, two to the left—the same routine he’s done a thousand times.

The ref blows the whistle. The return team shifts, setting their feet. The crowd noise rises. Love that sound.

Joey exhales then takes off.

One step. Two. Three.Boom!

The sound of his foot booming through that ball is loud enough to echo through my damn ribs. Like a shotgun blast. Like a hammer meeting steel.

I track the ball as it rockets through the air, high, perfect, end-over-end, cutting through the stadium lights like a bullet through glass.

The returner backs up. Keeps backing up. Hits the goal line. The ball is still sailing.

“Shit,” Colby mutters next to me. “Joey might’ve kicked it into orbit.”

The returner hesitates, realizes there’s no damn chance of bringing it out as our guys are fast as fuck. He throws up his hand. Touchback.

The crowd roars. Joey? He just blows a kiss to the opposing sideline as he jogs in.

“All right, D, make some magic,” our defensive coordinator, Mitch Moore, yells, and they take the field.

“Don’t make Hart wait too long to get back out there!” I call to them, knowing damn well he’s itching to be on the field after the bullshit suspension.

“Knights don’t field punts like they did; we return them! Let’s fucking go!” Hart yells as our return team takes the field.

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