Page 43
DAMON
S leeping with Avery and waking up in her bed the night before the National Championship game probably wasn’t the wisest idea, but if it hurt me any, it doesn’t seem to show.
My muscles feel loose, and my mind is clear as crystal as I lace up my cleats in the locker room.
The familiar pregame chaos swirls around me: Press conferences followed by the coaches barking last-minute adjustments, teammates headbanging to pregame playlists, trainers weaving through the locker room with tape and tiger balm.
“You look relaxed, man.” Jace grins over at me while he shoulders into his pads at the neighboring locker.
Brandon scoffs. “Yeah, I’d be relaxed too if I—”
“Don’t go there,” I grind out, flicking him a warning glare.
“At least we know who to blame if things go sideways,” Chris jokes.
“And if they don’t?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Then I guess we know who to thank.” Jace laughs, and I shake my head.
“Actually, we should be thanking ourselves. If it weren’t for us getting your ass up when we did, you probably would’ve missed the whole damn game.” Chris laughs.
“I would’ve woken up,” I grumble. “Eventually.”
“Just for the record,” West says, sauntering toward us, already dressed and ready to go, “I had faith you wouldn’t miss it or be late, but Chris vetoed me when I said we should wait for you to return to the room.”
“Could you imagine the vise grip Coach would’ve had on your balls if you hadn’t been here for pregame warm-ups?” Chris says, his tone defensive.
“Whatever,” I say with a shake of my head. “I admit it probably wasn’t my finest idea waking up in Avery’s bed the morning of our game, but I don’t regret it.”
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 deafening wall 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.
Through it all, my eyes scan the crowd, searching for one face in particular. And then I see her.
Avery stands behind the barricade separating the field from the stands, her honey-blonde hair tumbling over the shoulders of her Griffins jersey— my jersey —and her smile brighter than the stadium lights.
She jumps up and down, waving frantically to catch my attention. It’s a sight I thought I’d never see again, one that completely unravels me.
Without thinking, I break away from the celebrations, jogging across the field toward her with my helmet in hand.
I dodge staff, security, teammates, and reporters, my focus on one thing as I reach the barricade.
The fact I’m slightly out of breath has nothing to do with the short sprint to the edge of the field and everything to do with her.
Her hazel eyes brighten with unshed tears, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. “Hey,” I say when I reach her, unable to help the smirk that crosses my face, because I won, in more ways than one.
“Looks like you got lucky last night and today,” she says with a cheeky grin.
I reach out with my free hand, cupping the side of her face as I smirk. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, really?” She laughs, shaking her head as she glances down at her hands. “I’m just relieved because if you had lost—” She yelps when I grab the metal barrier with one hand and vault over it in a single motion, landing smoothly in front of her.
Dropping my helmet to the ground with a thud, I pull her into my arms and crush my mouth against hers as the world falls away.
The roaring crowd, the flashing cameras, my teammates’ whoops and hollers, the sounds of celebration, everything around me fades to background noise.
It’s a static buzz mingling with the roaring of my pulse in my ears.
I tilt Avery’s face with my hands, slanting my mouth against hers and relishing the taste of her?like cherry lip balm and victory. Like everything I ever wanted. Like mine.
With a growl, I bite her lower lip, eliciting a small gasp that reminds me of last night. I kiss her until we’re both breathless. Until someone shouts in my ear, and I finally pull away to see a microphone between us.
Beside me, a female sports reporter smiles. “Damon Huhn,” she says, pushing the microphone closer, “what an incredible victory! Can you tell us what was going through your mind during that final play?”
I blink, momentarily dazed by the bright camera lights and the reporter’s eager face. Without missing a beat, I sling my arm around Avery’s shoulders, and pull her tight against my side as my face splits into a grin so wide it almost hurts.
“Honestly? I just knew we had to execute. We might have been up by three, but with time still left on the clock, I knew we needed to score to ensure a win. The team trusted me, and I trusted them. That’s what championship football is all about.”
The reporter nods, her eyes sliding to Avery with a spark of curiosity. “And who’s this lucky lady wearing your jersey? Does she have anything to do with your spectacular performance tonight?”
Avery stiffens slightly under my arm, but I give her a reassuring squeeze as I beam down at her. I want the world to know she’s mine. “This is Avery Astor.”
“Your girlfriend?” the reporter prods.
Avery’s eyes soften, and I turn back to the reporter. “She’s more than my girlfriend, always has been.”
“Well, I think it’s safe to say there are going to be a lot of disappointed ladies back on the AAU campus,” the reporter says, turning back toward the camera with a smile.
“And there you have it, football fans. An inspiring win by the Ann Arbor Griffins, who will take the CFP trophy and some rings back to the Great Lakes State.”
Avery eyes me once the reporter is gone, her brows raised. “Girlfriend?”
“Has a nice ring to it after two and half years, don’t ya think?” I smile.
She reaches up, sliding her hands from my shoulders into the back of my hair as she rises on her toes. “It does. Because this time, I’m playing for keeps.”
And then she kisses me.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
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- Page 29
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- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43 (Reading here)
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- Page 54