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PROLOGUE

JETT

“Alright, boys,” my quarterback, Tanner Lake, says through his mouth guard. “Eighty-seven smash left on two. Got it?” He looks my way because this play is designed with me as a main target. All I have to do is shake the defender, catch the ball and get out of bounds anywhere beyond the first down marker. If I do, we’re going to the Super Bowl for the second year in a row. If I don’t, we’ll be watching it from our couches. I can’t let my guys down.

“No problem, Cap,” I reply with a nod. It’s my fourth year in the league, and my second with the Boston Blizzard. I was drafted by the Chicago Monsters late in the second round, but after two seasons with subsequent injuries, they didn’t think I was worth the risk. I had a lot to prove over these past couple of years, which I feel like I’ve done. My numbers aren’t exactly where I’d like them to be, but I think I’ve been an asset to the Blizzard since they traded for me.

“Let’s get that ring then! One, two, three! ”

“Break!” we all shout in unison, clapping as we disperse from the huddle and take our spots on the line. My heart hammers behind my rib cage as I mentally go through the play several times while Tanner gets set up behind our center. I scan the defense, looking for any signs that they know what’s going on, but it doesn’t look like they do. If that’s the case, all I have to do is beat this one man, and we’ll be on our way to Tampa for this year’s big game.

“Blue, twenty-one! Blue, twenty-one!” he yells as I wait for the snap. As soon as it happens, I shoot off the line like a rocket. The defender stays on me at first, but I juke quickly to the right before cutting left and waiting for the pass. I’m wide open as Tanner fires the ball my way—a perfectly placed spiral right where it needs to be, as always with him. Stretching my hands out in front of me, I make the grab and pull it into my body, tightening my arm around it as I sprint as fast as I can toward the sideline. We’re down by two points due to a safety in the first half, so if I don’t stop the clock here, Ramirez won’t have time to set up for the kick and it’ll all be over. The entire game is on my shoulders right now as I attempt to close the final ten yards between me and an AFC Championship for my team.

This is the shit I live for.

Just as I think I’m free, a set of thick arms wraps around me. I fight to push forward, using every ounce of strength I have to break the tackle, but he’s heavy and doing everything he can to take me down. My quads burn as I carry the defender with me, until I feel my knees start to give out when I can no longer bear the weight of what is now multiple men on my back. Tucking the ball under me so I don’t fumble, I brace for impact, hoping I was able to get at least a part of my body out of bounds to stop the clock in field goal range.

The ref blows the whistle, running over and stopping with his feet by my head as I look up at him. The other team’s defenders slowly climb off of me and I push to my knees, breathing a sigh of relief when I see that my entire upper half, including the ball are well past the first down marker, and I managed to get out of bounds.

“First down!” the line judge yells, signaling to the stadium that I’ve achieved my objective. I pop to my feet just in time to be almost knocked right off of them as my running back, Dalton Davis jumps on my back.

“Fuck yeah, baby!” he yells, smashing his helmet against mine. “You’re an animal, Kingsley!” This guy is always the life of the party, and his infectious laughter gets me even more hyped up as we hurry toward the sidelines while the field goal unit sets up for what I hope to be a game-winning kick.

“Show off,” Tanner says with a smirk as he sidles up next to me, nodding his head to where I went down about twenty yards past the spot we were hoping for.

I shrug. “Just trying to give Rammy some extra room.” Like he needs it. Ramirez’s field goal range starts in the fucking parking lot. The guy could nail this boot in his sleep, with or without my extra effort. But it feels nice to contribute.

We watch with rapt attention as the kick is made, a louder than normal thwack reverberating through the air as the entire stadium holds their breath. It sails straight down the pipe, just like I knew it would, and cheers erupt as our hometown crowd celebrates our come-from-behind win over the Pittsburgh Ambush.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” our defensive end, Maverick Moran, says with a bright smile. “We’re going to another Super Bowl.”