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Chapter 3

Game Time

Boone

T he 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 said no. 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, earn the 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.

Our return team doesn’t disappoint, either—Diaz gets it to the fifty.

“Halfway there,” our head coach, Trucker Cohen, yells. “Put those numbers up in lights!”

“All right, motherfuckers, they did their job, now we do ours!” Grimes yells.

We all follow Cody onto the field, taking our positions. We know the play and move like a well-oiled machine.

I block out everything else and focus solely on my task at hand. My eyes stay locked on the ball as it’s snapped, and I charge forward, ready to take down anyone in my path, distract them, get their eyes on me instead of the intended receiver—Hart.

The sound of pads crashing together fills my ears as I push through the other players, determined to get closer to that ball. It’s like everything slows down in that moment, every move calculated and executed with precision.

I feel someone grab at my jersey, but I shrug them off without breaking stride. My mind is solely focused on getting into position for the pass since they’re all over Hart.

And then it’s there, right in front of me. Without hesitation, I reach out and wrap my fingers around it, securing it tight against my chest as I barrel forward, toward the endzone, but am stopped at the five.

As we regroup for the next play, Warren calls the play while I catch my breath. My eyes can’t help but wander to the stands again, where I see my little flower with that foam finger waving. I do a little shimmy that tells her she’s got me all wrapped up. Her jumping up and down even more tells me she got the message.

We all take our places, Hart’s to make the first TD, a big foam finger to the league, so to speak. As soon as the whistle blows, we hit it hard. Cody fakes to me but throws a pass to Hart, who’s in the end zone. It’s high, but Hart gets higher. Touchdown!

Hart holds the football like a newborn baby, rocking it gently in his arms as he walks toward the camera, stares straight into the lens, nods once, kisses the ball, and then points up to the stands, where his fiancée is watching. “For you, Brooksie babe.”

Oh shit , I think, knowing his secrets, one he had me swear on everything I wouldn’t let slip, and he just did it, in front of the whole world.

“Bro.” I laugh as I dive onto him. “You just announced to the whole fucking world?—”

“That we’re engaged,” he cuts me off.

Laughing as the rest of the team dives on us, I say, “That’s what that was?”

“Fuck yes!” He laughs.

The next play, we hold them at zero, and the next, they keep us at seven. It’s brutal. They tie it up before the half.

The locker room is buzzing—helmets clanking, breaths heaving, sweat dripping onto the concrete floor.

Coach Cohen walks in slow, deliberate, hands on his hips. “All right, listen up!”

His voice cuts through the noise, and everyone falls silent.

“Right now, we’re sittin’ here tied up. Tied. You know what that means?” He pauses, looking around. “It means we’ve been out there trading punches, not landing the knockout. It means that, right now, on that scoreboard, we’re not winning! And I don’t know about y’all, but I hate that damn feeling.”

A couple of guys nod. Some grunt in agreement.

Coach takes a deep breath then points toward the door. “Out there? We got thirty more minutes of football. Thirty minutes to remind those boys that we’re not equals. Thirty minutes to prove that we are better, that we’re Knights. New York Knights!” He pauses to let it sink in that, yes, we have something to prove, because it damn well feels like it’s more than us against them; it’s us against the whole league. “And if any of you are thinkin’ about playing it safe? If you’re thinking ‘but we’re not losing?’ Let me tell you something—a tie’s a fucking loss until it’s not!”

A few guys chuckle.

Coach keeps going. “You wanna be champions? You wanna walk outta here tonight knowing you took this game, not just hoping it worked out? Then go out there and take it back. Break that tie. Smash it to pieces. Dominate!”

He points at the offensive line. “Big boys, push ’em off the damn ball. I wanna see pancake syrup on the field.”

He looks at the us. “Catch everything. I don’t care if you gotta use your helmet, your legs, your damn shoelaces—bring it the hell in!”

Then his eyes land on the defense. “And you, my nasty, defensive monsters—Finish. The. Damn. Job. I wanna see their QB second-guessing their career choices. I wanna see their running backs thinking about their life choices. I wanna see that scoreboard—our fucking board—lit on our side only!”

The room is louder. Fists pounding pads. We’re all hyped.

Coach nods, stepping back. “We got one half left. That tie? It dies. Let’s go.”

And just like that—game on.

In the third, Hart and I both squeak one in the end zone, but so does Dallas. With two minutes left, they pull ahead of us. With fifty seconds left, Hart makes a catch that will undoubtedly be on the highlight reels for years to come.

Joey is ready to come in from the sidelines, kick the field goal, tie us up, fight it out in overtime, and play it safe.

“This game is already a tiebreaker; we’re tied with Texas for playoff position. Coach was no-bullshit in the locker room when he said a tie is a loss until it’s not. He told me when we used our last time-out the last in the game, that the call is mine, and I’m saying it’s ours.”

We all cheer.

“Are we losers, or are we gonna win this game now?”

The play is set. Fourth and goal. Ball on the five. The defense is expecting the run, a Cody Warren special. The snap comes clean, I fire off the line, sell the block, then slip loose—wide open in the end zone. Warren looks to Hart, and he’s fully covered. Then he rifles it straight to my chest. Hands tight, ball secured, the second I turn, I see the safety coming—full speed, ready to erase me. I lower my shoulder, absorb the hit, but hold my ground and press forward.

The stadium erupts, telling me we fucking got this.

Grimes pulls me up, and Warren grabs my facemask. “Fuck yes! Fuck yes!”

“You better lasso it up, Boone; your girls are watching you!” Hart says as he pulls me into a full-ass hug.

The wall of players part, and I do my thing—two flips, shake my ass, pull out my imaginary lasso, and toss it up to where Lily is standing on Lindsey’s knees. She does her thing—throws her arms in the air and shakes her tiny hiney as the imaginary rope takes hold.

Lindsey smiles, but she’s not getting wrapped up; she never has. But that doesn’t change a thing; we’re still doing our thing, working on being the best parents we can for our little flower.

After my shower, Tate McKinley, our team communications manager, tells me I’m on for postgame.

I shoot Lindsey a text.

Me:

Gotta do press. Hang around?

Lindsey:

We’re with Riley in the hall.

Me:

OMW

When I round the corner, Lily starts running down the hall at me, full speed in her little Boone jersey, pink and gold, because “Black is boring, Daddy,” and her pink tutu.

I bend down and swoop her up.

“We won, Daddy!”

“Darn right, we did,” I say, hugging her close.

“You lassoed me!”

“Gotta make sure my best girl never gets away.”

She slaps her hands against my face, holding it still, as if I’m looking anywhere but at her. “We gots to celebrate.”

“Straight fact.”

“My Riley asked we go to the Brooks’ big barn for dinner.” I love the sound of her excited voice. “Mommy didn’t know mes big enough.”

I head over to Lindsey and ask, “You wanna go eat with the Knights fam?”

“I’m pretty sure I ate my weight in popcorn, but if you want to?—”

“Mommy, you gotta come, too. The girl bossesses are your friends. You gots to see your friends, like I gonna have new friends at pretty school after the ball drops.”

Pretty school, aka preschool, but why bother correcting something so damn adorable?

“Linds, you gots to.” Grinning, I bat my lashes and smile.

She rolls her eyes and smiles at Lily. “Okay, you two win, as usual.”

“All right, Daddy needs to go talk to the TV people.” I try to hand her off to Linds, but she koala bears my ass.

“I go, too !”

“Little flower, it’s only Knights?—”

“I’m a Knight, Daddy. Look.” She points to her shirt. “See?”

I glance at Lindsey, who shakes her head.

I squat down “This is a part of Daddy’s job that’s only for the players because the reporters ask tough questions.”

“I will save you,” she says, her little smile faltering, and it feels worse than a defensive end laying me out.

“If I need saving, I’ll shout for you, okay?” I hold out a pinky.

Frowning, she hooks hers around mine as best she can.

“Smile, little flower, we won today, and we’re celebrating after this.”

She nods. “Okay, Daddy.”

Fuuuckkk , I think as I set her on her little feet, stand, giving Lindsey a nod, and then walk away.

When I walk into the press room, my ass doesn’t even hit the chair before they’re pounding me with questions.

I drop into the chair, lean forward on my elbows, and nod to the reporters. “Let’s do this, yeah?” Then I lift my chin to Vega.

“Milo Vega with The End Zone Network,” she introduces herself, like they always do. “Beau, walk us through that final drive. How did you guys stay composed in such a tight game?”

I adjust the mic. “Trust.” My voice comes out steady. “Trust in our preparation, trust in each other. We knew they were gonna hit back, but we also knew we could take every punch and keep standing. Final drive? We did what we were built to do—we moved bodies, protected the QB, and made plays. That’s how you win.”

I nod to another.

“Devin Booker, Total Network Sports. Congratulations on the win.”

“Thanks, Booker.” I smile.

“First game back for Hudson Hart after the suspension. What was it like having him out there again?”

That question makes me grin. “In the words of … well, shit, probably shouldn’t mention a name or I’ll get canceled, too, but … it was about damn time.”

The room chuckles.

“We all knew the suspension was some bullshit, but he kept his head down, put in the work, and came out tonight with something to prove. And he did just that.” I glance at another eager reporter.

“Trey McAllister from Fast Break Sports. That touchdown catch of his in the second quarter … looked like you and him shared a moment after. What was that about?”

I lean back, shaking my head. “That was just me telling him, ‘Welcome back, man.’ He’d been stewing for a few weeks now, waiting for that moment. He wanted it bad. And when he got it? Hell, I think we all felt that.”

“Quinn O’Malley with First and Ten. Great game today, Boone.” She smiles.

“Appreciate that.”

“Hudson’s touchdown celebration—the ‘Cradle’—it’s blowing up on social media already. Did the team know he was planning that?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “We’re a family—of course, we knew. That was all Hudson and a perfect moment to announce he and his girl got engaged. His fiancée, Riley’s, been helping him hold it together. She earned that nod.” I give one to another reporter.

“Jaxon Wade from Titan Sports Network. This was a physical game—they came at you hard. What’s the mindset moving forward?”

“Same as always—celebrate tonight, work tomorrow. This game’s done, but we’ve got another one coming, and we gotta be ready.”

“Daddy!” I hear then see Lily tearing ass toward me. I stand up and catch her as she launches herself at me and see Riley flying in behind her, followed by Lindsey.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here, right?” I ask, my voice low and teasing.

She nods solemnly then grins. “But I missed you.”

I press a kiss to her forehead, and my heart does that thing where it feels too full for my chest. “All right, you got me. But you gotta let Daddy finish his work, okay?”

She nods again then looks out at the sea of reporters, her big blue eyes scanning the room. “They’re all looking at me.”

“They sure are,” I say, chuckling. “You just became the most important person in the room.”

She leans closer, whispering loud enough for the first few rows to hear, “Even more ’portant than you?”

“Even more important than me.”

The reporters eat it up. Cameras flash, and someone mutters, “This is the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

“All right, guys,” I say, adjusting her on my hip. “One more question, then we gotta bounce.”

Lily nods seriously, playing along. “Daddy’s busy,” she announces to the room.

The press room explodes with laughter, and I just shake my head, my grin impossible to hide. My girl knows how to steal the show.

One of the reporters, a younger guy with a big grin, raises his hand. “Hey, Lily, can I ask you a question?”

Her face lights up like she’s just been handed a microphone at a princess ball. She nods, her curls bouncing. “Okay!”

The reporter leans forward. “What’s your favorite thing about your dad?”

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Careful now. Choose wisely.”

She tilts her head, thinking hard, her little mouth pursed in concentration. Finally, she says, “He gives the best hugs.”

The room lets out a collective “aww,” and I can feel the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Not bad, kiddo. Not bad at all.”

Another reporter, a woman near the front, joins in, clearly enjoying this detour. “Do you think your dad played a good game today?”

Lily’s nose scrunches up in mock seriousness as she looks at me, clearly enjoying her moment in the spotlight. “He did okay,” she says with a little shrug. “But sometimes he falled down.”

The room bursts into laughter, and I bury my face in her curls, shaking my head. “Brutal, Lily. Just brutal.”

The woman laughs, scribbling in her notebook. “So, what’s your advice for your dad to play better next time?”

Her little cherub face goes dead serious. She leans into the microphone like she’s about to deliver the secret to life. “Run faster.”

Another wave of laughter rolls through the room, and I can’t help but chuckle, bouncing her on my hip.

Another question gets thrown at her. “How do you and your mommy like living in Blue Valley with your daddy?”

“We don’t live together, but we’re a family and love each other so much. And Daddy and Mommy?—”

“All right, all right, I think that’s enough for one night.”

“Daddy,” she whispers loudly, her voice carrying through the mic, “did I do good?”

I kiss her on the forehead. “You did perfectly. But next time, you wait outside like we talked about, deal?”

She nods solemnly then flashes the reporters her biggest, toothiest grin. “Okay! Bye!”

As I carry her out of the room, the reporters cheer and clap, and I know tomorrow’s headlines won’t just be about the game. They’ll be about the three-year-old who stole the spotlight.

As we’re walking out of the press room, she asks, “Can we do that again?”

“Miss Lily.” Lindsey shakes her head.

“Mommy”—she pouts out her lower lip—“Daddy needed help.”

Lily crashed in my arms mid-conversation with the Blue Valley matriarchs, who have embraced the hell out of Lindsey, which I am truly grateful for. The second generation BV babes, now including Cupcake—Sydney Sparks—have also embraced her. They talked about New Year’s Eve and asked if Lily would want to join the kids at Harper and Maddox’s house, who would be with the grandparents, and Lindsey said she’d think about it. That’s progress.

I came back to the house with them, knowing my sweet little girl would throw one of her epic tantrums if she woke up and I hadn’t said goodnight to her. Plus, I wanted to talk to Linds to see what more I could do to help her adjust to life here.

Lying in Lily’s room, even with her little white noise machine going, I can hear Lindsey’s repeated apologies to whoever she’s talking to on the phone. I block that shit because I’ve offered to handle it, and she’s not about that, so I have to respect that until it gets to a certain point—a point I’ll know when I get to it, I suppose.

She’s the girl I hooked up with all those years ago in college, who got pregnant and didn’t know it because her cycles had never been right and was a mess when she found out she was too far along to take a pill—thank fuck. Turned out this little one is everything. I can’t imagine life without her. Hell, even when I was fighting for whatever time I could get, I still cherished every moment. I know Lindsey feels the same. I just need to get her to remember that girl who was loving life at Jersey U. The girl who got drunk and told, not asked me, that I was gonna help her check fuck an athlete and not a math-lete off her list of shit she needed to do before heading back to her preplanned life in South Carolina.

I press my lips to the top of Lily’s little head and can’t help but smile.

Lindsey enters the room and whispers, “What’s the smile about?”

I shake my head. “Piss-poor timing to try to make you laugh. Everything okay?”

“Make me laugh?” she says as she leans against the door.

“You good?”

“Boone,” she whisper-hisses, narrowing her eyes at me.

“All right, you asked for it,” I warn.

“Spill it.”

“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but hearing you apologizing to someone who I probably wouldn’t, I was thinking about that night you demanded I tick a box.”

“I did not demand.”

“Shit, you’re right.” I quirk an eyebrow. “That wasn’t you who wanted an athlete and not a math?—”

“Shush,” she says and almost smiles.

“In your defense, you were drunk.”

“I was,” she agrees with a nod. “And you were, too.”

“Jesus, look at what we made out of that night, Linds. Look at what we did.”

She sighs and walks over, lying down on the other side of the bed and looking at her. “She’s everything good in this life.”

Her word choice—this life—is a bit confusing, but she ain’t wrong. Our little flower is everything good in this life.

“You ever think about having another?” I ask, like I do those questions every once in a while to test the waters, which have never gotten beyond room temperature since the night we made Lily.

“No.”

“No?” I half-chuckle. “Just no?”

“I’m so lucky to have had her, but I will never go through that special kind of hell they call birth again.” She shudders. “If you want her to have siblings, you better get to making them.”

“Not sure if you missed that day’s science class, but I’m pretty sure self-pollination doesn’t work for humans.”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.” She pushes up off the bed, but I stop her.

“This is your place, Lindsey.” I curl up and slide out of bed. “I’m gonna head back to my place.” Hart’s place. “Early practice. Don’t forget tomorrow night’s New Year’s Eve, and I wanna spend it with my favorite girls.”

“Boone, I?—”

“Linds, you’re my best friend; she’s our daughter. Promise that’s where I’m at, okay?”