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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Brady

Pouring water over my head, I give my hair a good shake, squirting more into my mouth and swishing it around before spitting on the turf.

Fernando comes up, so I pass him the bottle and wipe my face with the towel hanging from my waist.

We’re in the third quarter, and Alister is getting hammered.

My eyes fly to the clock, quickly focusing back on the field just as the ball is hiked.

It’s third down, Alister drops back, curls left, and prepares to fire the ball, but the line breaks, forcing him to scramble forward so as not to lose more yards.

He manages to get back to the line of scrimmage before he’s tackled, and the whistle is blown.

“Fuck, man,” someone mumbles, and I frown, tracking Alister as he jogs off the field, the punting squad taking his place. Another fucking turnover.

Alister tears his helmet off, slamming it to the bench as he takes the tablet and pulls up the film.

He’s shaking his head when I drop beside him. He doesn’t look up, just glares hard at the screen, watching as the line splits and he’s forced to make the call he did, abandoning the play and trying to get the few yards he nearly lost back.

“I fucking told you,” he spits. “I’m not quick enough. I need more time on the field or I’m never going to get better.”

I can’t argue with that. It’s the only way to level up from a great high school player to a good college one.

Alister hasn’t gotten the opportunity he was hoping for, being second to Mason both last season and this one.

Practice helps, but there’s nothing like live game play when everyone is coming at you with 100 percent effort, not something your own teammates will give you when you’re preparing for a game.

We go hard but with the understanding that we don’t want to injure our own guys.

Out here, everyone on the opposite side of the ball wants to take the others’ heads off.

The punting team is coming off the field, and I have to jump up, shoving my own helmet on and buckling my chin strap. Alister looks up, watching me as I push through the team on the sideline and grip Coach’s shoulder.

He looks up at me because, yeah, I’m taller than he is, a frown of frustration etched across his face.

“I’m not coming off the field when we turn the ball over.” I run out, not letting him respond.

He knows we need to try something. We’re down two touchdowns, our offense turning over the ball an embarrassing number of times the first half.

There’s only four minutes left in the third quarter, and it’s not looking any better.

I take the field with the rest of the defense, getting into position. I meet the eyes of some of our guys, nodding.

We’ve got to stop them to have a chance to win.

Shoving my mouthpiece in, I get ready, eyes snapping across the field, reading the play. The ball is hiked, swiftly passed off to their running back, who bulldozes his way through, getting wrapped up after a five-yard gain.

Fuck. “No more!” I shout, pointing at our defensive tackle.

He nods, and we get set. The quarterback kicks his foot back, the receivers fan out; the left has his body angled the slightest bit to the right, telling me where the ball is about to go—rookie mistake .

The ball is snapped, and I drive forward, juke a little to the left, then shoulder my way through.

Their quarterback already has his arm pulled back, foot stepping forward and prepared for the release. Going for a sack won’t work, so I jump, arm stretched as high as it can go, fingers spread wide.

The ball tips my ring finger, toppling, and changes trajectory. From the corner of my eye, I see our safety, Thompson, fly up, the ball landing right in his fucking hands.

The crowd goes crazy, and we run down field, blocking, but he’s shoved out of bounds at the thirty.

Still, the AU pride is going wild, the stomping in the stands echoing all around us.

The defense jogs off, but I stay right where I fucking am, meeting Coach’s gaze on the sidelines.

He gives Alister the play, and Alister runs out, but I frown when I spot Chase and Hector still on the sidelines.

“What the hell?” I frown. “We have to pass.”

Alister shakes his head. “He wants to push up the middle.”

“It’s first down and we’re already losing time!”

“It’s not my call.”

Shaking my head, we get into formation.

Unlike Brighton, we only get a single yard, the line too fucking strong for our guys to break through. Second down, Coach calls the same thing, and now I’m getting pissed. The clock is still running.

I’m about to get in fucking trouble.

The ball is snapped, and I rush forward, grabbing the D-tackle, and I hold the fuck on.

The play ends with our guy getting tackled, and flags are thrown.

“Goddamn it, Lancaster!” Coach screams on the sideline, the white hat turning on his mic and making the penalty official.

“Holding, offense number ninety-eight. Ten-yard penalty, repeat third down. ”

Gotta pass now, don’t you, Coach?

Coach points at me, aware of what I just did now that he’s had a second. I’ll get chewed out for purposely causing a penalty later, but oh fucking well. No more bullshit.

I look to Mason, dressed in his AU sweatsuit on the sidelines, a ball tucked under his arm, to see what his reaction is, and he gives me a nod.

I blow him a kiss in response, grinning around my mouthpiece.

The new play is called, and thank fuck our running backs jog out, exchanging places with our receivers.

Chase is chuckling as he comes up, slapping me on the shoulders and getting into position.

I look at Alister, who nods, his chest rising with a deep breath as he gets into position.

The ball is hiked and I do my part, closing the gap, staying low and fucking strong.

Alister hesitates, and a motherfucker comes around his backside, forcing him to throw the ball away.

I growl, shoving my guy away, and storm up to him as I yank my mouthpiece out. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Harper was in double coverage and Hector was short. I?—”

“You could have made the pass,” I say, cutting off his excuses.

“I just told you, he was in double coverage!”

I get in his face, knocking my helmet into his.

“And I just fucking told you, you could have made that pass!” He starts to shake his head, so I hit his helmet with mine again.

“I went back and watched your high school game film. I know all your moves. Fire the fucking ball right where it needs to be.”

He glares. “You’re asking me to risk an interception on my already minimal stats.”

“No.” I grip his face mask, my eyes hard on his. “I’m telling you to do what I know you fucking can, so quit with the self-doubt. Make the pass, Howl. Watch the way the crowd stands up for you when you do. ”

His nostrils flare, and he yanks away, both of us getting ready.

It’s fourth fucking down. If we don’t get in there this drive, our chances are cut in half. We need three touchdowns to win. We get into the end zone here, and we’ve got all of the fourth quarter to turn things around.

“You sure about this?” Chase mumbles, arms hanging loose at his sides.

“He can do it. Show him you can too.”

Chase gives a hard nod and, when Alister calls the first hut, shifts.

The ball is snapped, I do my job, and not long after, the ball is sailing over my head.

I jerk free, watching as it soars toward the left corner of the end zone.

Chase, once again, is being double-teamed, a guy on each side of him.

The ball starts to drop, Chase’s cleats digging into the turf as he runs, arms swinging, the defenders right on him.

He jumps, reaches, and does his fucking job, the ball yanked into his chest, shoulder down as he barrels his way across the one-yard line.

Touchdown.

The crowd flips out, the band plays, and I turn to Alister, grinning like a fool.

He throws his fist in the air, but he doesn’t stop to seek the praise like he has done in the past. No, he gives that single show of celebration, but he’s already running toward the end zone.

Fuck kicking for that extra point, we’re staying on the field and going for two.

And we get it, leaving us just shy of two touchdowns.

We run to the sidelines, and the team is on their feet, giving Alister the credit he deserves while the kickoff team takes the field.

I smile to myself, meeting Mason’s eye when he claps my shoulder as I walk toward the water table .

I tear my helmet off, wiping my head, and take a long drink, my eyes scanning the crowd until they land on my favorite girl.

Only this time when I find her, she’s not looking at me.

She’s smiling at him.

We won.

The team is still celebrating, running around and saying hi to their families, and I do the same, searching for the others where the girls were sitting.

Sure enough, Mason and Chase are already over there, hugging Mason’s parents and laughing with the girls.

Mason takes Deaton from his mama’s arms and turns, setting him down on the field. The two jog out to the end zone, and my chest warms as I watch little D run his fastest, his little legs pumping as he tries to catch up to his dad.

“That was him not all that long ago.” Mason’s dad, Evan, claps me on the shoulder. “Of course, I was playing some adult rec league trying to relive my college days at that point, so it wasn’t as cool as this, but man, that kid thought I was the coolest thing in the world.”

“Little D sees him the same.” I smile, turning to give his wife, Mason’s mom, Vivian, a sweaty hug.

She kisses my temple. “That’s from your mama, and this”—she kisses my hair with a wink—“is from me. Good job out there.”

“Thank you. Thank you, you guys, for coming to watch even though Mase couldn’t play.”

“Pssh.” She waves. “We have three sons on this team, not just one. Chase, honey, come give me a hug.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He squeezes around me, his shoulder pads still on.

Vivian wraps her arms around him, whispering in his ear something I can’t hear, and my brows pull when I notice her eyes are growing misty .

Wonder what that’s about.