Page 12 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Playoffs

Griffon

G ame day. Visitor locker room.

The lights are too bright, the air too cold, and every sound—every cleat on tile, every cough, every snap of tape—lands like a hammer. There’s something about stadiums like this. Older. Louder. Not ours.

I pull my hoodie tighter over my head and settle into the same spot I always do. I sit on the edge of the bench, elbows on my knees, and breathe. Not deep, not slow. Steady.

My cleats are already tied and rechecked. My pads have been adjusted three times. The last thing I do is close my eyes and walk the field in my head. Not visualizing the win. Not manifesting some bullshit headline. I run the plays, picture the breaks, feel the weight of impact before it happens.

Every game. Same routine.

Nothing written on tape. No charms. No photos.

Just the rhythm. Gramps taught me that when I went to live with them so I didn’t have to move schools and could focus in on what I knew was my passion, and what my dad said was a fucking joke.

I remember the fight as if it were yesterday.

He told me, “Go ahead; play a fucking game. You’re too soft to do what I do, anyway.

” Under his breath, I heard him say, “Fucking waste. Should have been you.”

Mom did flinch … that time. But she didn’t stick up for me, never did.

Behind me, Grimes is muttering to himself, already tapping his helmet. Hart’s got his headphones in, nodding like he’s in another world. Boone’s with us. Even though he can’t play, he’s still fucking here.

Then the locker room goes quiet.

Coach Cohen steps in, and we all stand.

His voice is low, calm, but we know the switch is coming. He’s holding a laminated poster board. Just black print. A list.

“Bricks,” he says, and Bricks, our biggest D-line guy, jolts like he’s been caught texting in class. “What’s the top one say?”

“ 1989, last division win . But we changed that.”

“Hell yes, we did,” Coach Moore hoots.

Cohen turns. “Decker, what does the next one say?”

Deck reads, “ 1992, last conference championship game . We’re gonna change that, too.”

“Damn right,” we all say.

Cohen continues, “Boone, the next line?”

“ 1974, last league championship . We’re gonna fuck that up, too!”

We all roar.

Coach nods, setting the board down on the bench like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Sit.”

We all drop.

“You’re not here to just play a fucking game,” Cohen starts.

“You’re here because the owners, this staff, all of Blue Valley, and the Knights fucking kingdom have faith in you.

This season, you proved them right. You are the ones who change the story.

You laid the first bricks in our quest to build a legacy. ”

No one moves. No one blinks.

“The vision from day one has been this: knock the dust off those numbers. Make the next one count. You don’t want to be the guy who nearly did it.

You want to be the name they chant in bars, talk about in college and high school locker rooms, and wear on their backs ten years from now.

You want the win? Earn it. Go through them on their field. Take it back home. And keep going.”

A slow clap starts from the corner. Boone. Then Hart. Then the whole damn room.

We’re not just hyped. We’re locked in.

“Game day. Let’s fucking go!” Logan yells.

I quickly pull my old cleats from my bag and set them in my locker before leaving with the team.

We’re in the tunnel. Lights dimmed, smoke machines humming low, and the sound coming from the stadium is damn near deafening.

The home team gets their entrance first, of course.

Fire shoots from both sides of the tunnel, and DMX’s “What’s My Name” blasts through the speakers.

The players are announced, and that sound—although it seems impossible—grows.

Philly’s crowd is frothing already. They love a show, a fight, a win … no matter how the game is played.

But something about the song—about them using that song—rubs wrong, especially after hearing a few guys talk about podcasts they’d heard talking about what our team has gone through the past few weeks, and knowing damn well they can rattle us. I get it’s a fight.

I glance over at Lucas just as he lifts a hand.

“Hold,” he says, voice sharp, cutting through the buzz.

He’s got his phone to his ear, eyes locked on the scoreboard above us.

The announcer calls us again.

“Now entering the field, the visiting team, the New York Knights!”

Nothing.

And then, loud and painful, a record screech rips through the sound system, silencing the crowd in a flash. But just for a heartbeat.

And then … “Enter Sandman.”

Our song. Our entrance.

Cohen yells, “Let’s ride, Knights!”

The bass drop hits, and the tunnel rattles. We’re roaring louder than the track now, shoulders colliding as we surge forward. Smoke and fire, black and gold flying.

We tear onto the field.

The boos rain down like a storm, but they’re giving me the opposite feeling as they intended. I’m fucking pumped.

I scan the sidelines just in time to see Coach Cohen chest to chest with Philly’s coach, both of them red-faced and gesturing wildly. This wasn’t sanctioned. This was us.

Bricks jogs up beside me, half-grinning, half-snorting. “This one’s gonna fucking hurt.”

My grin stretches too wide. “Fuck yes, it is. We’re going to war tonight!”

When I turn toward the bench again, I see the first entire section above our bench, the visiting bench. Not green; it’s a sea of black and gold. We always have a lot of our Knights Kingdom at away games, but this is ten times the number.

And right in the center of it—Iz. Surrounding her are Lo, Riley, Sydney, Lily, Lyndsey.

Lexi, Harper, London, and Mags. Above them are the BV MILFS—great fucking genes with this crew—and yeah, their men.

All of them bundled up in dramatic coats and scarves, faces painted, cheering like hell. But it’s Iz I can’t look away from.

She’s laughing at something Lexi says, head thrown back, cheeks flushed. I stare too long, long enough for her to catch me doing it.

She smirks and then … flips me off?

Lexi and Harper start jawing at her, and she only lifts her chin higher, smug and unbothered.

Yeah, that tracks.

I laugh as I turn to take the field for warmups.

We’re barely done with warmups when word gets back that Philly’s sending out six captains for the coin toss. Six. Like it’s some kind of intimidation tactic.

Typically, Bricks and Warren handle that job. QB and oldest team member, captains.

But when Cohen gets the number, he pulls Boone over, even though Boone’s not cleared to play today. Then Hart, Grimes, and … me.

He meets our eyes, one by one. “I’m making you all captains. You walk out there with your backs straight and let ’em know we don’t rattle. We lead .”

Hart just nods. Boone grins like it’s Christmas morning. Grimes slaps my shoulder. And I … well, I square up and head toward midfield with the rest of them.

Out on the field, the coin goes up. Warren calls heads.

One of the Philly captains, a tight end with a shit-eating grin, leans toward Cody. “Didn’t peg you for a top, man. Thought you were the bottom in that fucked-up relationship of yours.”

Cody doesn’t even blink, but his jaw tightens.

Then another one mutters, “Too bad that cop didn’t have better aim, huh?”

Boone doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. But his eyes go cold.

“Guess Hart and Grimes figured the best way to keep their contracts was screwing the owner’s daughters.”

They laugh—low, deliberate stage whispers meant to be heard.

I step forward. “Ref, you hearing this?”

One of the zebras lifts his head. “Hearing what?”

“The shit they’re saying. This isn’t banter; this is garbage.”

The ref sighs. “You trying to make trouble before the kickoff, son?”

“You serious?” I ask, pulse ticking hard.

“We’ll be watching you , number 54. Don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

“Better keep that pretty face covered; you’re going to need those sponsorships when you can’t walk.”

“Was that a fucking threat?”

I step back, barely keeping it together. Not because I’m afraid—because I want to swing. Bad.

Bricks murmurs, “They want us to crack first.”

Hart’s lip curls. “They won’t get it.”

But I can feel it building.

This game’s gonna get ugly.

And I can’t fucking wait.

The first quarter is a damn bloodbath.

We hold them on their first drive—barely. Bricks and Hunt eat their O-line alive. On our second offensive series, we get flagged for holding—twice. Same lineman. Only problem? He didn’t touch the guy. Even the home fans look confused.

Second quarter, Grimes gets targeted, helmet-to-helmet, after a short scramble. He’s slow to get up, clearly shook, but the flag? Nowhere. Boone and Bricks are losing their minds on the sideline. I’m pretty sure Coach Cohen chewed through a mouthguard trying to keep his mouth shut.

When Boone steps up to say something, the ref tells him to back off or he’s ejected.

“ Ejected ? He’s not even playing !” Cohen yells.

No response. Just that smug-ass zebra smirk.

We rally. Our defense holds. I make two sacks, one of them launching their QB into the turf so hard his ponytail comes undone. Still, every time we gain ground, there’s a flag. Late hits. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Blocks in the back that didn’t happen.

They want us rattled. Philly’s playing dirty, and the stripes are handing them a golden fucking pass.

By halftime, it’s tied 10 to 10.

Inside the locker room, the energy’s fire and gasoline. Boone’s pacing like he’s ready to suit up, regardless of his injury. Grimes is icing his ribs but growling, “Let them come at me again.” Hart’s pressing ice to his jaw, courtesy of an elbow the ref missed completely.

Coach Cohen walks in and throws a Gatorade cooler across the room. No speech this time. Just eyes that scream war.

“You know what this is,” he says, “so go take it, anyway.”

Third quarter, we do just that. Warren airs it out to Hart for a 50-yard gain. Then Grimes runs it in for six. We’re up 17 to 10, and for a minute, it feels like maybe we can push through the bullshit.

But fourth quarter?

They start pulling even more garbage.

Grimes gets flagged for a phantom face mask. Warren gets hit late again , and when he pops up and asks for a flag, he gets flagged for taunting.

We’re down by four with three minutes left.

Then, against all odds, we drive the ball downfield—clock ticking, fans screaming, every ref swallowing the whistle when their cornerback grabs Hart by the face mask and drags him out of bounds .

No flag.

Somehow, somehow , I get the ball, break through, and punch it in.

Touchdown. No celebration dance, no fanfare, no time.

We’re up 26 to 24.

Philly gets the ball back with fifty-two seconds. We stop them twice. But on 3 rd and 14, they throw a desperate pass to the sideline that’s bobbled and touched turf , but their receiver’s hand was on it.

The ref signals complete.

Boone loses his voice yelling at the sideline ref. Cohen throws his headset. Fans behind us are booing their own team .

Still, the play stands.

And with nine seconds on the clock, they score a touchdown.

30 to 26.

They line up for the two-point conversion. A run up the middle. Bricks meets their fullback head-on and stuffs him short of the line.

But the ref?

Hands up.

“It’s good.”

Are you kidding me?

I’m on the ground, knees in the turf, mouthguard dangling from my teeth, watching the replay on the jumbotron, and it’s clear to me and the rest of the damn stadium, it’s not in.

But the call stands.

Final score: 32 to 26, Philly.

They don’t even storm the field like they earned it. They slink back to the tunnel like thieves.

And us? We’re just standing here. Bruised. Bloody. Betrayed. No one speaks. Not yet.

Lucas Links appears on the sidelines, face almost purple. “We didn’t lose that game. They took it!”

When he starts to storm the field toward the refs, he’s met by security.

“You’re gonna stop me from trying to get fucking answers!”

“Dad,” Logan says, sliding in front of him. “Ava will handle this.”

“She shouldn’t fucking have to!” he screams and jams his finger toward the ref’s face. Logan swats it away before it makes contact. “You motherfuckers better sleep?—”

“Links!” Tessa yells. “Not like this. Let’s go.”

“Baby, they stole from our fucking boys. I can’t just let them wal?—”

“You can, and you will.” She fists his shirt.

“But—”

“Let’s go, old man.” Logan nods to us.

The whole fucking team walks onto the field, and the security team looks like they are gonna shit themselves.

“Links!” Cohen yells. “They’re loading Warren and Grimes into the boo-boo bus.”

I look around, searching for them. I could have sworn they were just here.

Fucckkk!