Page 39

39

JAXON

I stare at the ceiling, the early morning light shining through the hotel curtains, casting shadows across the walls.

My body is stiff, my mind wrecked, exhaustion clinging to me since I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours.

I should be thinking about the game.

The championship. The biggest moment of my life up until today, my last college football game.

But all I can think about is her.

It’s been two weeks, fourteen days of radio silence.

No texts, no calls, no accidental run-ins.

Nothing.

Madison is just…

gone.

The only time I do see her is from a distance—passing on campus, lost in the crowd, too far away to reach.

Even then, she doesn’t even look at me.

Worst part is, I can’t really blame her.

I should have told her about the voicemail, about the real reason I transferred here.

The only reason. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

In hindsight, I guess I should’ve been clearer on the other thing too.

I didn’t think it was that shocking.

I never had girlfriends growing up, never even entertained any who showed interest. It’s always been Madison .

Maybe I should have expected that.

Maybe I should’ve known she’d shut down, shut me out before I even had a chance to fight for her.

Even if I had expected this outcome, it wouldn’t have made it any easier.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to move, pushing the blankets off my body like they’re weighing me down.

I need to get my head straight.

I have to.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, pressing my palms into my thighs before pushing myself up.

My body is tight, sore, the last few weeks of training catching up to me, but I force my muscles to loosen as I make my way to the hotel bathroom.

The moment I step inside and turn on the shower, the smell of the hotel shampoo hits me—lavender.

Madison’s signature scent.

I freeze, my jaw locking so tight, I feel the ache all the way to my temples.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

I try not to think about the way her hair smelled when she was curled up against my chest, the way she would hum softly when I ran my fingers through it, the way she used to tuck herself against me like she belonged there.

When she belonged to me.

But my mind doesn’t give a shit what I want, because, suddenly, I can see her: laughing, looking up at me with those damn hazel eyes, her nose scrunching the way it does when she’s trying not to smile.

I clench my teeth hard, shaking my head.

She’s not yours anymore, Montgomery.

I take a step forward and slam my fist into the shower wall.

The pain shoots up my arm, sharp and immediate, but I welcome it.

It gives my mind something else to focus on.

I press my forehead against the cool tile before turning, my chest heaving, my breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

I feel like I’m drowning in the loss of her.

Maybe I am .

Slowly, I slide down, the water pounding against me as I sit on the ground, my hands bracing against my knees.

I need to let this go.

I have to.

Even for just a few hours, I need to shove it down, push it aside, and get my head in the game.

For my team.

For myself.

I take one last, deep breath, then force myself to stand.

Time to move.

I sit on the bench, my jersey hanging loose around my shoulders, rolling my wrists as I work through the last bit of tape.

Carter plops down next to me, watching me with narrowed eyes.

"You good?"

I don’t answer right away.

Because no.

I’m not good.

But I force myself to nod.

"Yeah. I’m locked in."

Carter doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway.

"Good. Because we need you, man."

Before I can say anything, Logan steps in front of us.

I glance up, my jaw already tightening.

He looks uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, man," he says, sighing.

"I was an asshole. I ran my mouth when I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t think about the consequences. I didn’t mean to cause you problems, and I regret the way I went about things."

I stare at him for a long moment.

"Little too late to be sorry now, don’t you think?"

Logan nods, lips pressing together.

"Yeah. Probably."

The coach calls for everyone to get moving.

Carter pats my shoulder.

"Let’s go win a championship."

I nod once.

"Yeah. Let’s do it."

The tunnel is dark, filled with nothing but the sound of cleats scraping against the concrete, deep breaths, and the low murmur of coaches giving last-minute instructions.

I roll my shoulders, shaking out my arms as I bounce on my toes, trying to loosen the tightness in my chest.

This is it.

My final college football game.

The last time I’ll put on this jersey, the last time I’ll run onto this field as a college athlete.

After this, everything changes.

But right now? I shove all of that aside.

For the next sixty minutes, there’s only this game.

I glance around at my teammates, the guys I’ve sweat with, bled with, pushed through hell with.

Carter catches my eye, his helmet tucked under his arm as he nods once.

"Let’s give ‘em hell, boys," he says, voice steady, confident, ready. "It’s our final time. Let’s make it count."

There’s a collective murmur of agreement, pads slapping, fists knocking against helmets.

"Storm on three," Carter calls, raising his fist. "One, two, three?—"

"STORM!"

The moment the word echoes through the tunnel, the doors open, and the noise hits like a tidal wave.

It’s a deafening roar, thousands of voices chanting, screaming, the rumble vibrating through my chest as we break into a run, charging onto the field.

Stadium lights blaze down, fireworks shoot into the sky, and for a brief moment, I just take it in.

The moment.

The noise.

The way this feels.

I want to burn it into my memory, never forget the way adrenaline surges through my veins, the way the crowd chants our name, the way my heart hammers in my chest like it knows this is the last time.

The whistle blows, and it’s time to work.

We start strong, coming out aggressive, pushing the ball fast, keeping their defense scrambling.

I make my first catch on a quick slant, taking it up field for an extra twelve yards before getting shoved out.

Carter is right there, yanking me up with a grin.

"Nice start."

I nod, chest heaving.

"Let’s keep it going."

And we do.

Our running back breaks a twenty-yard gain on the next play, our offensive line holding strong against their rush.

By the time we hit the red zone, our QB fakes a handoff, rolls out, and fires the ball to me in the corner of the end zone.

I jump, fingertips grazing leather, securing the catch as my feet plant inbounds.

Touchdown.

The crowd erupts, shaking the damn stadium as my teammates swarm me.

Defense takes the field, locked in, forcing a three-and-out before our offense gets the ball back.

But it doesn’t stay easy.

Their defense adjusts, doubling up coverage, closing gaps, pressuring our quarterback.

The next few drives turn into a grind, every yard hard-earned, every snap a battle.

They hit back, scoring on a deep pass after their receiver barely gets a step on our safety.

7-7.

The tension tightens, the game shifting into a slugfest. Bodies collide, helmets smash, the air thick with sweat and the sting of cold night air.

Every play is a test of will, every snap another second closer to the end of this chapter of my life.

With three minutes left in the second quarter, we get our break, a fumbled handoff by their running back.

Our linebacker dives, securing the ball, and just like that, we’re in business.

I glance at Carter as we jog on to the field.

"Let’s punch this in before half."

He smirks.

"Let’s do it."

We push fast, working up the field with sharp, crisp plays, eating the clock while keeping our momentum.

On third and goal, our QB makes eye contact with me, giving a barely-there nod.

The ball is snapped, and I explode off the line, cutting inside before breaking back toward the pylon.

The pass is perfect, right into my hands.

Second touchdown of the night.

We go into halftime leading by seven.

The locker room is tense, but not in a bad way.

It’s focused. Guys breathe hard, trainers work on tightening wraps and stretching out any sore muscles, coaches talk through adjustments.

The scoreboard reads 14-7, but no one is relaxed.

This game is far from over.

Coach stands in front of us, his hands on his hips, looking around at each of us.

His voice is steady, firm.

"We knew this wasn’t going to be easy. They’re a damn good team, but so are we. This is our game to win, but we have to finish."

Heads nod.

Breathing evens out.

"They’re going to come out swinging in the second half. Expect it. Embrace it. Hit them harder."

A murmur of agreement.

He looks at each of us, pausing on me.

"Montgomery, you’re playing your ass off. Keep leading. Keep pushing."

I nod, jaw tight.

"Yes, sir."

He glances at Carter.

"Hayes, keep them in check out there. You know what to do." Coach steps back and exhales.

"We’ve got thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes to make this ours. Go out there and give it everything. No regrets. No holding back. You feel me?"

"Yes, Coach!"

"I said, do you feel me?"

The locker room explodes—guys pounding their chests, yelling, the energy electric.

Coach nods. "Then let’s finish the damn job."

I take one last deep breath, my pulse steady, my mind clear.

One half left. Thirty minutes to end this right.

I grab my helmet, lock in, and follow my team back to the field.

My chest heaves, my fingers curling into my gloves as I stare up at the scoreboard.

21-27.

We’re down by six.

Two minutes left.

This is it.

The crowd is deafening, but I don’t hear it.

All I hear is my own breathing, the pound of my heart in my ears, the sound of our quarterback’s voice as he calls the play in the huddle.

I glance at Carter, his jaw tight, his eyes locked in.

“We march down this fucking field. No second chances. No mistakes. Let’s finish it.”

We all nod, a silent understanding passing through the group.

This is our game, and we’re not leaving without a damn fight.

We line up.

The defense is stacked, ready for the run, but we aren’t running.

The snap is clean, and I burst off the line, cutting inside, my feet moving fast, my body reacting.

The first pass is short—Beck grabs it, pushing forward for eight yards before getting shoved out of bounds.

Clock stops .

One minute, twenty seconds left.

We hurry up, setting for the next play.

Snap.

I fake outside, then break back in, the safety biting just enough for our quarterback to thread the needle.

I catch it. Hold on.

Tuck it.

Then, I push forward, legs burning, dragging a defender an extra five yards before I hit the ground.

First down.

Clock running.

Fifty seconds.

The next play is a scramble—our QB barely escaping pressure, dumping it to our running back, who dives out of bounds to stop the clock.

Thirty-eight seconds.

We’re at the fifteen-yard line.

One shot.

One chance.

Win it here.

We huddle, breathless, wired, everything on the line.

The call comes in.

I hear it.

I know what’s about to happen.

Carter looks at me and nods once.

“Go get it.”

I line up.

The corner presses in, but I don’t let it faze me.

My heart slams against my ribs as I shift my weight forward, my muscles coiled tight, ready to explode.

The snap.

I go.

I break fast, cutting left then shifting hard to the right, shaking my man.

And then, I see it.

The ball .

Floating.

Perfect.

I run, my legs pushing harder than they ever have before, my eyes locked on the spiral coming straight for me.

I leap.

Fingertips graze leather.

I secure it.

Feet inbounds.

I have it.

For a split second, I think we won.

I don’t even see him coming.

CRACK.

Pain explodes in my head.

A blindside hit, full force, helmet to helmet, my body snapping back before I ever get the chance to react.

The stadium lights blur.

The noise vanishes.

My knees buckle.

Everything tilts?—

Then, nothing. Just black.