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A growing smile splits my face in two as I think about last night.

Nope. No regrets at all.

“Well, that’s good to hear, man,” Brandon says, slapping a hand over my shoulder. “Because there’s a whole hell of a lot of people depending on you.”

Two minutes remain on the clock. The stadium roars like a living beast, a hundred thousand voices merging into one deafeningwall of sound. Despite the January chill, sweat drips into my eyes while my jersey clings to my back, grass-stained and damp.

“Damon, focus!” Coach shouts over the noise as I jog to the sideline during the timeout.

The scoreboard glares down at us: 27-24. Three measly points separating us from heartbreak or history. Alabama’s defense has been reading our plays better in the second half, adjusting to shut down our running game. My ribs ache from a particularly nasty sack in the third quarter, but the pain feels distant now, buried underneath the adrenaline.

I take the water bottle handed to me, squirting some of the liquid into my mouth and the rest over my head. The cold shock clears the chaos of my thoughts. Thanks to a fuck-ton of hustle on the field and a couple amazing plays, followed by a field goal, we’re ahead, but there’s still too much time on the clock for comfort. If I fuck this up and Alabama gets possession, they could clinch a win. Bringing home the title is up to me. And I need this last play to cement the score.

Coach leans forward, intensity radiating off him as he gets in my face. “They’re expecting the screen pass. We need to switch it up.”

I nod, scanning the field. Alabama’s defensive line is shifting, their linebackers hovering close to anticipate our next move. My mind races through our playbook, weighing options against the clock ticking down.

“What about Tango Six?” I suggest, referring to a play we’ve barely used all season. “They won’t be expecting it.”

Coach’s eyes narrow, considering as he glances at the offensive coordinator who gives a subtle nod. “Tango Six it is,” he decides. “But you’ll need perfect timing with Jace on this.”

I glance over at Jace, who’s already watching our exchange, and we lock eyes. He gives me a nod. “Let’s do this.”

“Time to bring home the win, gentlemen!” Chris crows before turning for the field.

Behind me, West slaps my helmet. “You got this, Damon.”

The crowd’s roar intensifies as I jog back out to the field. Both teams line up, while I scan Alabama’s defense, recognizing their formation. They’re setting up to stop a screen pass, exactly like Coach said.

My eyes find Jace on the left flank, then Brandon on the right. The center’s fingers twitch on the ball, waiting for my signal.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out the deafening crowd. I take a deep breath and center myself as I yell, “Blue 42! Blue 42! Hut!”

The ball slaps into my hands like a torpedo. I drop back, scanning the field as the pocket forms around me.

Three seconds.

Four.

Alabama’s defense hesitates, confused by our formation, and just as their linebacker breaks through our line, I spot it—the gap I’ve been waiting for.

Jace cuts hard left instead of right, breaking his pattern exactly as planned. The cornerback trailing him stumbles for just a fraction of a second. But that’s all I need.

I launch the ball in a tight spiral, putting everything I have behind it. The trajectory is perfect—high enough to clear the defensive line but with enough speed to reach Jace before their safety can adjust.

Time slows as the ball arcs through the air and Jace’s hands rise to meet it, sure and steady even with two defenders converging on him. The collision is violent: bodies launching, arms reaching. For one heart-stopping moment, I can’t see if he’s caught it.

Then the referee’s arms shoot up.

Touchdown!

The stadium explodes. My teammates swarm the field, helmets flying into the air as the final seconds tick away. Brandon reaches me first, tackling me to the turf with a primal scream of victory. The others pile on until I can barely breathe, a tangle of limbs and endorphins.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” Chris yells in my ear. “That was perfect!”

After a few moments, when I finally extract myself from the celebration, Coach is there. His usual stoicism cracks wide open as he grabs me in a bear hug that nearly crushes my already aching ribs. “You did it, son,” he says, his voice gruff with emotion. “One hell of a game.”

The chaos of victory swirls around me in a melee of cameras flashing, reporters shoving microphones at us, and teammates embracing. But there’s only one person I want to see.