Page 8

Devin

A Super Bowl game felt different.

It wasn't just the crowd noise even if eighty thousand people screaming felt like standing inside a jet engine. It was the weight of it. The way it pressed down, wrapped around my ribs, rattled in my damn bones. Fourteen years playing football, seven in the NFL, and nothing prepared you for this. I'd been in a lot of big games… Rose Bowl championships, play off battles that went to overtime, but nothing ever matched the pure electric current of the Super Bowl.

The moment the Crossbills' defense took the field, I rolled my shoulders, letting the energy settle inside me like a living thing. My helmet felt heavier, my pads more substantial. Every sense heightened until I could practically taste the anticipation in the air.

I glanced down at my wrist, where Delaney and Georgia's friendship bracelet peeked out from beneath my glove. It was a simple braid with red and white strings that my daughters insisted I wear today. “For luck, Daddy,”

Georgia said as Delaney tied it with such careful concentration that I didn't have the heart to tell them it might not last through warmups. But somehow, it had survived, a small reminder of what really mattered.

My family.

How the hell did I get here?

The thought flashed through my mind as I scanned the field. From that scrawny kid with a chip on his shoulder to playing in the Super Bowl, living in a house I paid for. My mom’s set up for life now, I covered my sister’s rehab and college tuition, and I still had more than enough to raise my family. It still didn't feel real sometimes.

This was my domain. The field, the lights, the noise. This is where I did my best work and I’d only proven that since getting drafted. Granted, I was getting to an age where I might have to start thinking about retirement, but I’d worry about that next year. This year, the aim was to finally win it all.

Drew McCallister was across from me, standing calm and unreadable behind his offensive line.

He wasn’t just the Rattlesnakes’ golden boy, he was the NFL’s dream. The dude was pushing thirty, with the agility of a quarterback fresh out of college. Retirement might’ve been on my mind, but he had no interest in it.

Drew was one of the best in the league. He was annoyingly good at getting the ball out fast, a little too smooth under pressure, and his throwing motion was so quick it was almost disrespectful. But we'd played against each other for years now and shared enough beers in the offseason to build a reluctant friendship. I knew his tells. The way he lifted his chin just a fraction of an inch when he was about to throw deep. The way he tapped his fingers against his thigh before checking into a new play. The slight shift in his stance when he was setting up a screen pass.

He wasn't getting out of this clean.

“Let's eat, baby,”

Dean Reeves, our defensive end, muttered beside me, bouncing lightly on his feet, the words barely audible through his mouth guard.

I smirked, not taking my eyes off the line, watching Drew's hands as he barked out the cadence. “Hope you brought your bib.”

Dean let out a low chuckle, his fingers twitching against the turf, ready to explode. I could feel his energy from two feet away—the man was a coiled spring wrapped in muscle.

Across from me, the offensive lineman was already sweating, a dark patch spreading across his chest. His eyes darted left, then right, shifting his weight like he could feel what was coming. Like he knew exactly who he was trying to block.

Smart man.

The center snapped the ball, the motion triggering something primal in my body.

I exploded off the line, the world narrowing to tunnel vision.

The guy in front of me, three hundred pounds of muscle and bad intentions, went low, trying to plant his feet and keeping me from getting leverage. His technique was solid. Too bad for him I'd been built for this moment since the first day I walked onto the field.

I hit him hard, my gloved hands driving into his chest plate. There's a sweet spot, right between the numbers, where you can feel a man's will start to break. I found it, shoving forward, twisting my hips just enough to throw him off balance. His feet skidded against the turf, leaving twin black streaks as I cut inside. My muscles burned with the perfect pain of purpose as I locked onto Drew, who was scanning downfield, looking for an open receiver.

Drew saw me coming a beat too late.

His eyes flicked up, meeting mine through our facemasks. His hands tightened around the ball, and for a split second, I saw something like resignation cross his features.

He had nowhere to go. No escape route. No open receiver to bail him out.

I closed the space in three long strides, planting my shoulder, driving forward with every ounce of momentum I'd built. The collision was beautiful in its simplicity, my body becoming a weapon of pure physics.

I hit him.

A perfect sack.

We went down hard, my arms wrapped around his waist as his back slammed into the ground with a thud I felt through my chest. The football compressed between us, his grip somehow maintaining possession despite the impact.

The stadium exploded, the roar washing over us like a physical wave.

I lingered there for a moment, one knee pressing against the turf, grinning down at his face as he blinked up at me. Sacking a quarterback is the closest thing to legal assault in professional sports, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it.

“Damn, Walker,”

Drew muttered, grimacing. “You been eating your protein, huh?”

I let out a short laugh, the sound muffled by my mouth guard. “You act like I haven't been sacking your ass for years.”

He huffed, a half-smile pulling at his lips despite the hit he'd just taken. “I was hoping you'd get tired of it.”

“Never.”

I patted his chest before pushing off him, standing to my full height, letting the moment sink in. First defensive play of the second quarter, and I'd put their star quarterback on his back. Message sent.

Drew eyed my outstretched hand for a second before shaking his head. “Nah, I'm good. Gonna lay here a sec. Feels nice.”

I grinned, stepping back as he finally rolled to his feet with the grace of a man who'd been knocked down plenty of times before. He brushed grass from his jersey, then leaned in closer so only I could hear.

“How're the kids? Reign still putting up with your ugly ass?”

Even in the middle of the Super Bowl, Drew would ask about my family. This was why I couldn't completely hate him, even when I was trying to break him in half.

“Five kids and I still find time to sack you,”

I shot back with a smirk.

Drew clutched his chest in mock offense. “Low blow, Walker. I was just warming up.”

“Really? Because that throwing motion looked a little slow. Age catching up to you, McCallister?”

He laughed, genuine and quick before his game face returned. “This conversation isn't over, but I've got a touchdown to score.”

“In your dreams,”

I called after him as he jogged toward his huddle, his gait unaltered by the hit. He was a tough son of a bitch, I had to give him that.

Dean was the first to reach me, smacking me on the back hard enough to make my helmet jolt forward. “Damn, big man still got it!”

I scoffed, adjusting my chin strap, feeling the adrenaline still surging through my system. “You doubted me?”

“Nah,”

Dean said, still grinning, his eyes wild with the high of a good defensive stand. “Just making sure you remember how to put a man on his ass.”

I smirked, my pulse still hammering against my throat. “Anytime, anywhere. Now let's go get him again.”

The huddle broke with sharp slaps and grunts of encouragement, the offensive line getting back into position across from us. I crouched down, and pressed my fingers into the turf, my muscles coiled and ready.

But my mind flicked, for just a second, to Reign.

I knew she was up in the suite, watching. Probably sitting there with our kids, trying to keep the twins from climbing all over Aster while managing the triplets and simultaneously pretending she wasn't stressed about me getting hit. She always worried, even after all these years, even knowing this was what I was built for.

God, I loved her.

Loved the life we built. The home with too many toys scattered across the floor. The kids who screamed my name when I walked through the door after road games. The chaos of trying to get five children dressed and fed and out the door without losing my mind.

I loved every part of this. The feeling of peeling off my pads after a brutal game, muscles aching in that satisfying way that told me I'd left everything on the field. Walking through the door and seeing Reign look at me like I had just won the damn world, even when we'd lost the game.

And I knew she loved it, too. Loved the fire in my eyes after a win. Loved the way I could scoop up all five kids at once, their squeals filling our too-big house. Loved how I’d never give up proving how much I loved her.

The ball snapped, yanking me back to the present.

I surged forward, pushing through the line with raw power, Drew was already scrambling in the pocket, his eyes darting for an open target. His offensive lineman was better prepared this time, getting his hands on me, but I fought through it, closing the distance one hard-earned inch at a time.

Drew saw me coming, a flash of recognition in his eyes.

A smirk pulled at his lips, the kind that said he wasn't going down easy this time. “You coming for me again, Walker?”

“Every damn play, McCallister.”

I growled, pushing against the block, feeling the give in the lineman's stance.

The pass sailed incomplete, and Drew shook his head at me as he jogged back toward his huddle. “See you next play, asshole.”

“I'll be waiting.”

The trash talk between us never got too personal, having found that sweet spot between genuine competition and respect.

The rest of the quarter was a back-and-forth battle, neither team giving an inch. When the Rattlesnakes finally punted with thirty seconds left, I jogged toward the sideline, my lungs burning with exertion.

Tanner met me at the Gatorade station, already suited up and ready to take the field. He handed me a cup of electrolytes, his game face on but a hint of excitement dancing in his eyes.

“That sack was nasty,”

he said, nodding with approval. “Drew's gonna be feeling that one tomorrow.”

I gulped down the neon liquid, my breath still coming hard. “Good. Maybe he'll think twice before trying to extend plays.”

Tanner's mouth quirked up at one corner. “Their safety's cheating on curl routes. Gonna hit Cohen deep on the first play.”

It wasn't a question. It was Tanner letting me know what was coming, the way he always did. A heads-up so I'd be ready when our offense struck fast and the defense would need to get back out there.

“Make it count,”

I said, crushing the paper cup in my fist. “And hey—”

Tanner looked back at me, eyebrow raised.

I slapped him on the shoulder, harder than necessary, but with all the weight of brotherhood behind it. “Good luck today, man. For everything.”

I gave him a meaningful look. “And I mean everything.”

“Trust me,”

he said, his confidence returning as he jogged toward the field as the whistle blew for the end of the quarter. “Focus on keeping Drew on his back, I'll handle the rest.”

I watched him go, our offensive captain, the guy who'd led us through a brutal season to get here. Whatever nerves he had about proposing to Aster tonight, I knew they'd vanish the moment he stepped on the field.

For the next few hours, there was nothing but this—the perfect simplicity of hunting a quarterback under the brightest lights in sports while watching our own quarterback create magic.

And win or lose, I would walk off this field knowing I had given everything. For my team. For myself. For Reign and the kids watching from above.

That's all a man could ask for.