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GoGo comes around the corner with lightning under his feet.

The man is, after all, nothing if not fast. You’ve seen it a dozen times.

The entire Cyclones defense has shifted left.

There’s nothing but open field between GoGo and the end zone.

You can see it clearly—space. Wide, free, dangerous space.

Then, a blur in green.

Number 99.

Kai.

Somehow, he hasn’t taken the bait. Maybe it was because it was hours of film review; maybe it was just that he knew his former teammate like the back of his hand.

Kai holds the edge like his life depends on it.

As GoGo turns the corner, Kai is already there, eyes locked, arms braced like he’s been waiting his whole life for his exact moment.

The collision is seismic. You could swear that, even behind the wall of double-paned glass, you feel it. Not hear it or see it, but feel it in your bones. A perfect hit, clean but merciless. Kai drives through GoGo like a closing elevator door. Pads clash, cleats slide, and the ball shoots loose.

In the box, the crowd’s cheers come in muffled waves, thunder heard from deep below the waves of the ocean.

“Fumble!” Kai’s mom cries.

You press your hands to the glass.

On the field, chaos erupts.

Rico Jennings, the Cyclones linebacker, dives on the loose ball, curling around it like a secret.

The ref’s whistle blasts sharply, three staccato bursts.

Miami’s sideline goes crazy, players throwing helmets and pumping their fists.

Kai stands over the wreckage he caused, shoulders heaving like a bull in a pen.

He’s looking down at GoGo. For a long, agonizing moment, you worry about what’s about to happen.

The Jumbotron shows the hit again in slow motion. GoGo’s eyes wide even beneath his visor, Kai’s big arms exploding forward. The ball spinning like a coin flipped by Fate.

On the field, Kai walks away from GoGo without a word. Finds Sandy and flings himself against his best friend, bumping chests together and embracing ecstatically.

The Rogues’ sideline has gone still. Their head coach, Levi Gunn, levels a thousand-yard-stare into the distance. Not yelling or pacing… just replaying the moment when his team gambled and lost.

In the box, it’s pandemonium. Kai’s mom and Sandy’s mom are crying and hugging each other, Jamie is screaming so loudly that you are deeply glad little Atlas is sound asleep in a corner bassinet with noise-cancelling baby headphones, and even Gabi risked coming to the glass to wrap you up in a massive hug.

The celebrations only last a few moments, however.

The tension has popped, but only just slightly.

On the field, the real game has just begun.

Miami’s offense comes out hunting. Their first play is surgical.

Sandy rolls right, and hits Jameson in stride for eight yards.

Then a brutal run up the middle by Isaiah Wren, a Cyclones lineman, dragging defenders like he was late for dinner.

First down at the 17, and Miami’s in the red zone.

The suite feels like a pressure cooker with velvet walls.

Then comes the dagger.

Sandy drops back on first-and-10, pump-fakes just enough to freeze the safety, and lofts a tight spiral to the far left corner.

From this angle, it looks overthrown, but Miami’s wideout, Tariq Jones, has springs in his ankles.

He launches into the air, twisting mid-flight like a ballet dancer, and gets both feet down in-bounds, cradling the ball gingerly. Touchdown, Miami.

The suite erupts, and so does the crowd in the stands. Noise breaks against the glass like a tsunami. The score is now 17-7, and Miami doesn’t look merely content. They look hungry.

Across the field, GoGo sits alone on the bench, his helmet in his lap and his stupid mullet falling over his face.

Not talking to anyone. Just staring at a Surface tablet like it has answers to all the questions haunting him.

Replaying the moment he took the pitch. The moment that nothing but nighttime air stood between him and a TD.

The moment Kai calmly and cleanly stepped in and ended it, then refused to engage.

It wasn’t a simple play. It was a hinge, and the whole night swung on it.

The omnipresent patter of the commentators, which you generally ignore, rises up faintly in your consciousness, like a sermon read down a long hallway.

“The Train didn’t guess. He knew. That’s not instinct… that’s film, discipline, execution. That’s why you don’t run cute reverses against a guy who’s playing chess while your offense is playing Uno.”

You clearly weren’t the only one to hear it, as Mr. Covelli chuckles a little bit, but nobody is cracking up. Things are too tense. Everyone just saw living proof of the harsh realities of an NFA game: one mistake, one perfect read, and the whole damn narrative shifts.

Back on the field, Kai stands with his helmet on, not even celebrating anymore.

Just pacing, and waiting for the next drive.

Like a man who knew he’d made the first cut and needed to finish the job.

Vegas isn’t done just yet. But they’re bleeding, and that blood in the water has attracted the predators.

Tonight, the Rogues are playing to survive.

The Cyclones, however, have finally decided to hunt.

By the two-minute warning, the carnage is done.

The Rogues squeaked out a short field goal in garbage time, but, other than that, Miami gave up no more points.

The score is 31 - 10. Sandy kneels at the whistle, and the game is over.

Confetti rains on the field, celebrating the fact that the Cyclones are going to the championship round.

Mama Covelli pops the champagne, and pours juice for the little ones to sip from flutes. But you can’t stop watching.

On the field, players are hugging, ass-pats, and congratulating each other.

Even the disgraced Rogues are getting in on the celebration.

Coach Gunn and Coach Beausoleil have clapped each other on the back, and Sandy tightly embraced Marcus Simone, sharing words of encouragement that must have been pretty loud to be heard over the deafening noise from the crowd.

Tradition dictates this, you know. Football teams might be mortal enemies for the 60 minutes of regulation, but good sportsmanship requires that you are gracious in both victory and defeat.

Last year, Kai bitched at you about a legendary player—was it a Manning brother?

Tom Brady —who didn’t shake hands after losing an important game.

Kai does his part, circulating through the throngs of players and exchanging congenial slaps on shoulders, one-armed bro hugs, and complicated handshakes.

His helmet is off, and he’s wearing a crisp new Cyclones baseball cap.

Against your will, your eyes scan the field for GoGo. It’s like playing Where’s Waldo with how many white jerseys linger on the turf, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Your suspicion is confirmed when Gabi appears by your side, shyly peeking around your arm.

“He’s gone,” she says flatly. “I watched him leave. He’s really mad. The asshole was always a sore loser.”

You pull her close, and turn your attention to the TV screens, where players are beginning to get nabbed for post-game sound bytes.

Sandy thanks God and his teammates for turning things around in the second quarter, and specifically calls out the Train for shifting the momentum of the game.

That’s a perfect segue for the network, who already has another reporter downfield who’s managed to snag Kai.

“Congrats, Kaius!” she chirps. Her head barely comes up to his bicep.

“What a game! That replay of you and GoGo Heller is going to be playing nonstop on every highlight reel tomorrow. Can you walk us through your mindset when that was going on? Everyone knows your history with GoGo. Were you just waiting the whole time for your opportunity?”

Kai favors her with a wide smile, the fake one he gives members of the press.

“Thanks, Gracie,” he says politely. “To be honest, I don’t have an exciting answer for you.

I had a gut feeling that Vegas was setting up something fishy, and I usually follow my instincts in moments like that.

Could have been Heller or any other receiver.

Didn’t matter. Coach always tells us to read the situation.

It’s all football. Nothing more, nothing less.

I’m grateful to the Rogues for being such outstanding competitors. It was a good game.”

She presses, clearly not happy with his politic answer. “Did you have words with GoGo at any point during or after the game? He’s a player known for getting under people’s skin, and especially yours, given the news as of late. Any chance you guys had it out?”

Kai’s leaning down to hear her, but, with that question, he straightens up.

“Like I said, the only thing on my mind tonight was helping secure us a spot in the conference game. Now that we’ve done that, I’m thinking about next week.

Personal drama is the last thing I have time for.

” He flashes one more grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a locker room full of teammates who probably want my attention.

” He doesn’t wait for a response, just exits the frame.

You continue to watch the post-game coverage, and gradually become aware of the fact that, for the first time in hours, you are breathing comfortably, and your heart doesn’t feel like it’s stuck in a hydraulic press.

You’re even a little hungry, so you drag Gabi to the food trays before the stadium staff can come in and start clearing them up.

***

brEAKING NEWS: NFA STAR HOSPITALIZED, ARRESTED AFTER NIGHTCLUB INCIDENT

Las Vegas Rogues star receiver Grenville “GoGo” Heller was charged with two felony counts of criminal possession of a weapon in the second degree and one charge of felony drug possession on Monday night after accidentally shooting himself in the thigh in a crowded Las Vegas nightclub.

Police escorted Heller to a Clark County hospital, where he is being treated for his injuries, and will remain with Heller until he is medically cleared and can be transferred to custody.

As of this writing, Heller has not entered a plea on the charges, although his attorney stated that Heller planned to plead not guilty.

A defense lawyer for the State of Nevada argued for no bail, stating his belief that, with his immense fortune, Heller was a flight risk. Heller’s attorney countered that, due to Heller’s contract with the Rogues, he had good reason to cooperate. Bail was set at $100,000.

According to a criminal complaint that was made public, witnesses in the crowded club reported seeing Heller arrive with an entourage around 11 PM.

Reportedly, he was in a foul temper due to the Rogues having been eliminated from playoff contention by the Miami Cyclones, and several complaints were issued to club staff regarding his loud, repeated use of slurs and other profanity.

Heller was witnessed to have drunk an excessive amount of alcoholic beverages, and was, at one point, spotted drinking straight from a bottle.

Around 12:30 AM, the loud, sharp sound of a gunshot was heard, which caused attendees to panic and scatter.

In a VIP area, Heller, who had been talking with two female club-goers, collapsed to the floor, his pants bloody, and a .

40-caliber Glock pistol fell out of his trousers onto the ground.

It seems that the gun accidentally discharged.

“Somebody call a f**king ambulance,” Heller stated.

When police arrived at the scene, a baggie of white powder was also found in Heller’s possession. The powder later tested positive for cocaine.

A grand jury will make the decision as to whether Heller will be indicted after hearing evidence. If Heller is found to have been in illegal possession of a firearm, he could face a sentence of 3⒈／⒉ to 15 years in jail.

Records show that Heller had a concealed weapon permit issued by the state of Florida, which is his legal residence, but that it expired last March. Nevada has a reciprocal agreement to recognize CCW permits from Florida, but that would not apply to Heller.

In light of the charges against Heller, the Las Vegas Rogues issued a statement saying that Heller was suspended indefinitely from team activities, pending further developments in the case.