by Rie Warren
With that win, we’d sealed our fate. Super Bowl bound where we’d go head to head in Denver, Colorado, against the San Francisco Sidewinders. Incredible. My life since getting kicked off the Ravens had done a complete 180. Now only one thing was missing. Well, two, including the Super Bowl Trophy. But even that paled in comparison with Reggie.
I maintained my vicious workout regime, the dietary guidelines, the no-drinking and no-drugging. Busted my ass in the weight room, on the practice field, and during every single game. No matter what, every single day, I wrote a letter to Reggie. Thought about her the whole damn time.
Wished she was up there in the stands.
The fact she wasn’t here to celebrate with me stung, but Carolina Crush’s achievement this season was nothing short of monumental.
Finally, it was the eve of the Super Bowl, the first weekend of February. One more trip to take. One more game to crush. One more team to conquer.
The most important game ever.
I plunked down on a bench next to Brooks while we waited for the buses to roll up to shuttle us to the plane.
“I think I fucked up bigtime, man,” I blurted.
“How so?”
“I feel like a freak, but I’m in love with Reggie.”
He slid me a long glance.
I bristled. “What?”
“Newsflash. That cat clawed its way out of the bag like a month ago. Maybe more. Remember the Kick’n Horse incident?”
“Wasn’t a fucking incident. All I did was ask her to dance.”
“And look like you wanted to beat up every other man who had danced with her. Including our own Gentle Giant, Bunyan.”
I slumped down, folded my arms across my chest. “He shouldn’t have ever touched her.”
“Duuuude. Bunyan would never make a move on your girl.”
“That’s the thing. She’s not my girl.” I scowled. “I let her go because I can’t stop thinking about what everyone will think. I mean, how twisted is this? Moving in on my brother’s widow?”
“If she’s interested in you too, it’s not exactly like you’re creeping on her.”
“I just can’t get it outta my head. Her and Chris. Her and me.”
“What do you think your brother would want?” Brooklyn let the question hang in the air for a moment. “You both to be happy together or miserable apart?”
“Yeah,” I said, pulling at my tie before smoothing the knot back in place. “Maybe you’re right.”
He snorted. “Always fucking right. Except when I’m totally fucking wrong. Then I have to answer to Delaney.”
“Douche.” I knocked my shoulder against him. “Seriously though. You’re almost as good as my sponsor.”
“How’s that going?”
“Cake.” I clapped my hands together, rubbing some warmth back into them. “Well, not always. It’s hard sometimes especially when my head’s all fucked up, but that’s the whole point, right? Facing fears, dealing with feelings and all that shit, instead of trying to tune it all out with drugs or alcohol. I’m not gonna fuck it up though.”
“I didn’t think you were. You’ve got a ton of folks here just waiting to help if you need it, right?”
“I guess. Never expected that. Probably didn’t think I deserved it after the Ravens.” I shrugged. “Did you know recovering addicts aren’t supposed to get involved in a relationship until a year of sobriety?”
“Good thing you’ve got more than that under your belt then.”
“True that.” Sitting up a little straighter, I slid a glance to Brooks. “I’ve, uuuh, been writing her letters.”
“Again, no shit. Remember that one time when Bunyan read one of ’em to us?” He smirked while my cheeks heated. “Cool though, bro. That old-school romance thing. I bet she’s fucking eating it up.”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t written back.”
“It’s your turn to pony up, Malone. She already did when she traveled all the way here just to be with you in December.”
“Sorry to break up the bromance”—Rafe interrupted as he jumped up behind us—“but bus to board, plane to catch, Super Bowl to motherfucking win, y’all.”
“Bromance my ass.” Reaching back, I smacked him on the side of the head.
“Your ass? Thought all you guys wanted my ass. Is Brooks the sloppy seconds? Didn’t you know he’s already engaged?”
“I ain’t sloppy nothin’.” Brooks stood up menacingly before breaking into a low rumble of a laugh. “And damn right I got my girl. Your turn next, Calder.”
****
Just before we hit the field on the biggest game day of the season, Coach D banged into the locker room.
We huddled up immediately, energy somersaulting through the air.
“Listen up, y’all.”
We craned closer as he pulled a Crush winter cap farther down over his bald brown head.
“This is the game we’ve been waiting for. The night that could set everything right for Carolina Crush.” Folding his arms over his chest, his voice boomed ever louder. “The Sidewinders ain’t gonna make it easy. They’re gonna try to plow right through you. They’re gonna try to outmaneuver you. You better fuckin’ believe they’re gonna get inside your heads. Fire, it’s running through their veins. But we are what?”
“CAROLINA CRUSH!”
“And what are we gonna do?”
“Carolina Crush it!” The resounding rebel yell bounced off the walls of the locker room.
Coach D nodded. “That motherfucking Lombardi Trophy, you better bring it home tonight!”
After the rousing speech, complete with trademark Coach D Yoda-speak, we rushed down the tunnels, out onto the field. And the insanity began.
The absolutely wild atmosphere multiplied a million times with the loud music, the roaring fans in the packed stadium. Towering pyrotechnics burst up to the night sky like twisting fiery columns. Throughout the player announcements, screams and hollers surged in a continuous tide of noise from the spectators. Frankie was there. No sign of Reggie, though. Of course not.
And it was so motherfucking cold in the high-altitude stadium, for once I was happy about all the padding and layers of uniform.
Super Bowl? Should’ve been called the frigging Snow Bowl.
The insane fanfare continued—shouts so loud I thought my eardrums were gonna shake right out of my head. Then the Sidewinders won the coin toss, and it was on.
Immediately it became clear San Francisco had switched up their offense. They began with a series of plays, running the ball instead of the short fast passes that’d made them playoff superstars.
Shock numbed me as we watched them sail downfield, yard after yard after yard. Our defensive line was literally left out in the cold.
The Sidewinders scored their first touchdown after just four minutes of play.
Akoni led his defense off field, muttering, beating his massive fist against his helmet, pissed at himself.
Rafe, as leader, approached him. “Ease up, big man. That was just the first possession. And I’m gonna take our offense out hard and fast. Even the score.”
San Francisco Sidewinders had hit the end zone, but Carolina Crush was ready to hit the red line.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Super Bowl Baller
Calder
THE SIDEWINDERS PUNT TO us landed us firmly entrenched on our thirty-yard line.
Our first play decided, helmet grills slammed down, we knocked fists then lined up, Rafe behind me. Some big mean fucker hunched in front of me. He looked like he wanted to pound me into next week.
Good.
I couldn’t wait to go at it, strength for strength.
Heavy cold breaths steamed in and out of our nostrils, my ears attuned to Rafe as he called the shot, knuckles punched to the frosty turf.
Snap!
The Mac Daddy of the team palmed the ball behind me when I passed it off, and then I went full-bore badass-motherfucker on the blocker in front of me.
We hurled together with a bone-shaking clash. As soon as I bowled him back a few feet, I shoved him down to the turf. I rounded on the next tackler, determined to give Rafe the time and space to complete his play.
Overhead, the pigskin arced. It whistled past, just out of arm’s reach as it jetted downfield. I took another three players to the ground, running in a zigzag to speed my way toward Brooks who was open, ready, and waiting for the catch.
I laid into the last San Fran defender just before he could slam into Brooklyn.
Brooks wasted no time, snatching that ball from the air like he had magnets at the end of his fingertips. Spinning away, he dug in, and jammed on the gas. Marquis was the only one faster than him.
Well, maybe Delaney Jones, too.
The Sidewinders couldn’t catch him. They didn’t bring him down—football cuddled like a delicate baby to his chest—until he made it all the way to their thirty-yard line.
Nice.
We made our first seven points right after that. Only four more minutes on the clock. The Sidewinders could fucking suck it.
We weren’t backing down. We were bringing it, play for play.
Those bastards should’ve stayed home and worked on their tans.
I wasn’t cold anymore as I sprinted off field, hand clasped to Brooklyn Holt’s shoulder. Damn dude, finally managed to score the first TD instead of Marquis.
Neck and neck, we answered each of their touchdowns with one of our own. This Super Bowl was like fucking MMA, the back and forth fast-paced and furious.
Physical and fierce.
Brutal and bruising.
At one point, during a skirmish with the meathead who always lined up opposite me, he almost managed to pop my shoulder joint out of socket. Searing pain—fiery hot—shot up my arm, and tears stung my eyes. I bit down on my mouthguard and turned that agony into unyielding strength.
I drove Dickhead to the turf, springing at him when he thought he’d already bulldozed me.
I enjoyed his look of what the fuck before I jumped over him.
Marquis—pigskin cuddled in his forearm—had shuttled downfield but was nearly surrounded. I wasn’t even close to him, but damn if I was gonna let our best wide receiver go down on my watch.
Fuck that noise.
As center, I was the jack-of-all-trades on the team, and right then I was prepared to trade ball-busting bruises and body-punching hits for a chance to guard Marquis on his run.
Wheeling off Sidewinder tackler after tackler just like a pinball in a machine—Tilt!—I ate yardage until I shoved right through the ring enveloping Marquis as he fought to get free. Other Crush players joined me, and we tore open a pathway for Marquis, watching him shoot downfield.
It wasn’t the cold air that rose chills on my arms as I held huge men at bay. It was the fucking thrill of the game absolutely vibrating through me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
I barely heard the ref’s shrill whistle when Marquis slammed into the end zone.
My heart almost pogo’d outta my chest as I saw him do a double backflip right in front of the field goal.
San Fran had the last run before halftime. On the sidelines, I notched my helmet back and guzzled a Gatorade. Brooklyn crowded beside me. Other than Coach D and Coach Sam, no one spoke, and those two only conversed in hushed tones after Akoni had herded his dudes onto the field.
Our two teams were neck and neck at 35 to 35, and we did not wanna close out the first half with a point deficit.
Thirty seconds on the clock. But thirty measly seconds was plenty of damn time to score at the last minute. And by the time there was still four seconds left until halftime, it looked like we might end the goddamn first half with a fucking point deficit.
The Sidewinders quarterback took the snap at our ten-yard line.
Facing off with their offense, Deacon Cross punched forward, Akoni surged from the left, and Bunyan rounded from behind. The three men performing a move they’d practiced a million times in prep for the Super Bowl.
The Sidewinders didn’t expect such massive men to be so fucking agile. And not a single one of them expected the three-pronged sneak attack that sacked their QB three seconds after he got his hands on the ball.
That time I heard the whistle loud and clear, signaling halftime.
The two titanic linebackers chest bumped. Probably shook the ground all the way to the earth’s core. Tilt.
Deacon Cross, defensive tackle, backed away from the pair, waving his hands in the air like a white flag. He wanted no part of their celebratory manhandling because . . . hello, concussion.
“How you like AK now?” Akoni pounded his chest, prancing around, as much as a three hundred-plus-pounder could prance.
As always Akoni proved surprisingly light on his feet.
The crowd blasted up from their seats. A wave of contagious energy rippling through the arena as we hustled off the field, and the halftime show roadies darted out from all corners of the stadium.
In the locker room, towels strewn, cleats unlaced, gear everywhere, we mopped down and hydrated up. We didn’t congratulate ourselves. Not yet. All the motherfucking cards were on the table, and we didn’t know who’d end the night with the winning hand. But a tie score was better than trying to dig out of a hole.
I returned from taking a leak to hear Bunyan all but bleating, “Oh man. I really wanna catch this halftime show.”
“You got a thing for Rihanna now?” Rafe asked.
“I got a thing for legs.” Bunyan tossed back mouthfuls of water. “Speaking of, when are we gonna see Reggie again, Calder?”
I flipped big Biggs the big middle finger.
Akoni rested a timber-sized arm over my shoulder, shooting a look at his linebacker buddy. “Leave him alone. You razzed him enough about the letters.”
Damn right he had.
Bunyan squinted in my direction. “Just miss the little lady, that’s all. ’Sides, I think she was good for ya.”
The yokels kept up with the yadda yadda, but thankfully the jeers turned to Brooklyn after he complained, “Damn, I think my junk almost froze to my cup out there. Delaney ain’t gonna be happy about that.”
“Especially if you lose your Girth Brooks status?” I knocked him on the shoulder.
“Y’all are just jealous.”
Buckley cut in. “That you scored Delaney maybe.”
That time he roused laughs instead of ire. Kid was learning. It’d just taken him a few motherfucking months.
“I think we all deserve a trip to the Bahamas if we win.” Marquis tucked a band around the dreadlocks threaded down his back, corralling the mass of hair.
“You payin’?” Brooks asked.
“You fucking poor all of a sudden, playa?”
And thus went our halftime while the crowd outside was entertained by one of the biggest pop stars in the world and a lightshow to rival any in Vegas.
Coach gave us another inspiring pep talk.
Peyton—now about four months pregnant and beginning to show—made her appearance, too.
The words they spoke boiled down to the same recipe for a win: Play with heart. Go out there with pride in the game. Don’t fucking back down.
Oh yeah, and: Win the Lombardi Trophy once and for all.
****
Unfortunately, the second half brought on the bad news. The Sidewinders had reservoirs of fuel in their tanks. Teeth gritted, jaws clamped, taking you fuckers down written all over them.
Despite the frigid temperature and snow flurries fluttering down, sweat rolled down my face. Blurred my eyes.
Bruises marched all along my body from bone-breaking blows. Luckily we had thick skins and thick skulls to go with.
And thick in the fourth quarter—Sidewinders with a seven-point lead—they blitzed the holy hell out of Rafe, pinning him briefly to the ground. He didn’t pump back to his feet like usual.
Whistles blew.
Coaches D and Mark ran out onto the field followed by
our head PT, Angela.
We ringed around him, the clock stopped.
“Peyton’s gonna be pissed if I miss the rest of the game,” Rafe ground out between tight teeth.
Angela held his hand out from his body. “Oooh. Poor baby, Wafey, got another damn booboo on the finger he dislocated last summer.”
Without an ounce of sympathy, she popped the knuckle back into place.
Rafe’s lips parted, but he made no sound at all.
We all winced. Everyone knew better than to ask Angela to baby them.
“Ice on it. Now.” She glared at the rest of us. “What are you looking at?”
Holy fuck.
We scurried back into place as Rafe walked off the field to massive ear-banging roars from the stands.
Couldn’t believe my eyes when Coach Frank pushed Luke Buckley onto the turf.
“Holy shitballs,” Brooklyn muttered.
“Looks like the kid’s up,” I said.
“Cornhusker in the hiz-ouse!” Marquis seemed less concerned than the rest of us, swinging his dreads over his shoulder as he helmeted up.
Jesus Christ. We had possession, but this was a crucial play.
Buckley could fuck up our Super Bowl dreams.
He’d never even taken the field during a regular season game.
No time to worry about that shit, I tucked an arm around his shoulder when he bounded up like a young pup with no fucking clue at all.
“Don’t you goddamn dare let the nerves eat at you, man.”
“Pretty hard to go all out when I’m second string to the Mac Daddy. Dude already has a Super Bowl ring.” Luke looked about ready to puke his guts out.
“Lemme get this straight. You took Nebraska to an undefeated season. Shot balls like your arm was on fire.” I grabbed his chin guard. “You worried about you or if we got your back?”
“Both. Everything. I dunno.”
I felt Buckley’s nerves rolling off him—ping ping ping.
Bent my helmet to his. “First time in the NFL. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty big game.
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Get ready to own it.” I slapped his helmet, huddled up to listen to his play maker.