by Rie Warren
I’d heard Serena wasn’t a fan of mine after finding out about Cal’s paternity so I hoped to win her over with the swank seats, the delicious food, the bubbly champagne.
“Peyton.” Tall and dark-haired, Serena shook my hand. “How’s your boy going to do tonight?”
“Oh, he’s not my boy. He’s yours.” Because if he failed on the field I was gonna kick him in the balls.
Kidding.
Kind of.
“That’s right. You already have a boy.” She hit me with the mean glare.
Like I hadn’t been up against much worse, from Lou in fact every time I wrangled with the ornery GM.
Who now whistled through his teeth. “This pregame show of yours might be even more entertaining than the one down below. And that’s hard to compete with when Buckley’s taking the field with the cheerleaders.”
I laughed, spinning to look through the windows again. “I’d forgotten he lost the first quarterback wager.”
And yup. There was our Cornhusker rookie, in a cheer outfit complete with spangled bootie shorts, red lipstick, and pompoms.
I watched the close-up of young Buckley shaking his thing on the JumboTron to a sick, pumped-up remix of “Heathens” alongside the Crush cheerleaders. He popped his ass, strutted his stuff, and had the fans on their feet, whistling and howling like crazy. Definitely a crowd-pleaser. The applause when he did a backflip then hit an-almost split shook our box.
He sprinted off field for a quick change to his uniform, and suddenly the sports announcers’ comments piped into our booth on the same live feed going out all over the nation:
“It’s Monday Night Football, folks!” The deep voice blasted in. “Last year saw the near-demise of a once great franchise—Carolina Crush—and the passing of Billy Fox. Now owned by his daughter, Peyton Fox, Crush has taken a lot of risks, built a deeper roster. They even started training camp early. It’s time to see if the gamble was worth it as they face the Denver Devils—the team who defeated them last—once again!”
Well, when you put it like that . . . no pressure or anything.
Then it was all stamping feet, shouting voices, fiery pyrotechnics on the field as the teams rushed onto the turf.
Music. Roars. Player intros.
Everyone was representing for the armed services this month: camo towels, baseball caps worn on the sidelines, headgear covers, and even shoelaces and wristbands in olive green.
Slapping hands. Slapping asses. Bumping chests.
My heart sailed into the atmosphere when Rafe was announced. I hoped he killed it tonight.
The wild mood settled for the national anthem as everyone stood with their hands over their chests.
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
And after the final notes, my eyes welled when a squadron of Thunderbirds from the Charleston AFB flew in formation above the stadium.
Seconds later the game was underway, and I sat on the edge of my chair, hemmed in by Lou and Serena, both equally invested.
The Devils won the coin toss, and their quarterback was an MVP. I hoped Akoni sacked the crap outta him.
The first throw bulleted downfield. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. That football almost sailed into our side when their top seed wide receiver plucked the ball from the air. He dodged left and right, finally tackled to the ground at the Devils’ forty-five.
First play. First freakin’ down after a lot of yardage. Not good at all.
Lou started pulling at what little hair he had left on his head.
Serena cussed so much she could’ve filled Rafe and Liv’s swear jar with one single sentence.
The Devils QB did a sneak roll and fake pass then slipped the football to a running back with a feint of hand our defense completely missed. The Denver Devils scored. Two minutes into the game.
Jesus.
“With seven points on the board, the Devils come out of the gate and show no quit! Can Crush recover from the defense team’s fubar?”
It was our ball next.
Brooklyn caught that bitch on kickoff, dodging downfield like a demon was riding his back. He hit our thirty, our forty, gunning for glory as he steamrolled right into Devils’ territory.
“Run, Brooks! Run!” I jumped to my feet.
The Devils didn’t tackle him until he hit their fifteen.
“Looks like Crush found new life. Brooklyn Holt brought down close to the end zone. Carolina should be able to hammer this touchdown home!”
The snap. The ball in Rafe’s hands. He pulled back, aimed, and let loose. The football sped lightning-fast, and Marquis’s fingertips touched it.
I leaned forward, almost smushing my nose to the glass. “Catch it, Marquis!”
His fingers closed over the ball. Hugging it against his chest, he outran the defense, hopped over a lineman, and cruised into the end zone.
Score! Field goal good! Tied! The first five minutes, and I needed prescription medication. I emptied a bottle of champagne into my glass.
“You should pace yourself, Peyton.” NYC-slick Serena didn’t seem ready to celebrate.
Neither was I. The bubbly was medicinal only. “My nerves are shot.”
“You know Rafe’s in love with you, right? Always has been.” She looked at me askance and barely bothered to lower her voice just so maybe—you know—Lou wouldn’t overhear.
“Y’all aren’t gonna start paintin’ each other’s nails over there now, are ya?” Intently listening in, Lou folded his arms over his chest. “’Cause I came to watch the game.”
“I think I might be in love with him too.” I ignored Lou.
Serena rolled her eyes. “Thought so. About time someone made an honest man out of him, don’t you think?”
“Game. The biggest game of our careers. Save the girly talk already, for fuck’s sake.” Lou refilled my glass and pushed it into my hand. “By the way, proud of you.”
“What?”
“Don’t flood me with tears or anything, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Gruff as ever, he slouched deeper in his seat, but I didn’t miss the small smile on his lips. “You done good. Billy would be proud too.”
Lou and I had never seen eye to eye.
Not once in all the time he’d been GM for Carolina Crush.
“Okay?” I glanced at him over the rim of my glass. “So you know I made the right decisions about the team.”
“’Course you did, or I wouldn’t have stayed on after your father died.”
“That’s kind of—”
“Holy shit! Denver just fumbled!” Serena shouted, breaking into Lou’s and my almost-come-together moment.
“Deacon Cross, Crush’s new defensive tackle, snags the loose ball for a turnover! Cross, the old warhorse Carolina took out of retirement, breathing new life into the team. This one could be a nail-biter, folks . . .”
“Deacon Cross. New defensive tackle. Case in point.” I smugly smiled.
“Like I said.” Lou clapped a hand on my shoulder, letting me own the moment.
Carolina got off another couple successful plays, gaining an easy twenty yards, but I was still nervous as hell. With good reason, because a minute later Rafe was looking down the barrel of ten yards at the third down.
“Ohhh!” The commentator’s voice cut in. “Would you look at that? Carolina’s still in possession, but Macintyre’s out of the pocket!”
“What?” I charged to my feet, wishing I was on the sidelines.
“Looks like he’s gonna run it, folks! And—oh, no!—the Sack Daddy of the Denver Devils has sacked the Mac Daddy—Rafe Macintyre, if rumors about his son are true!”
Rafe went down hard, dropping our team back ten yards.
My face tightened when he didn’t get up with his usual ease. He laid, flat-out, on the field.
Anything but his arm or his knees. Please, God.
Serena joined me, swearing in a low hiss.
Finally the medic tromped onto the turf, checking him over while his teammates gathered round him. At the medic’s nod, Brooklyn caught Rafe’s hand and tugged him to his feet. He waved off the stretcher, saluted the crowd, leaving the field without even a limp.
Goddamn it. At this point, tied game, there was no reason to risk a fourth down play, putting untried Buckley in as QB, and we were too far away to attempt a field goal.
Carolina’s defense raced onto the field.
Lou shouted as he counted the players. “Too many! We got too many players on the goddamn field for fuck’s sake!”
The refs flagged Carolina Crush, and the Devils got an immediate extra five yards. They came forward for the kickoff, gaining mega ground as soon as their wickedly talented wide receiver caught the punt and ran it all the way to their forty-yard line. That bastard was gonna be a game MVP for sure if we didn’t stop him in his fast tracks.
From there it was another touchdown after only three plays.
The Devils were out to smear us all across the field.
With the ball in our possession again, Rafe came back on, uninjured from the sack and ready to make yards, I hoped. He huddled with the offense, then everyone lined up. His knuckles brushed the turf, the same hard-working hands that had comforted me, made love to me, taken care of our son.
I couldn’t even breathe anymore.
Quarterback snap. Rafe fell back, surrounded by our linesmen.
The ball flew from his hands, a missile on course to Marquis. Marquis, who ate dirt, tackled from behind as soon as he connected with the football. Fletcher the Fetcher—the Devils top turnover specialist—snuck forward, snatched the ball. He curled over it to roars from the crowd as Crush fans surged to their feet in shock.
A fumble. A conversion in Denver’s favor.
I felt hollow. I only hoped Rafe could hold up under pressure.
I could barely stand to watch the second quarter. My heart pumped hard then grew sluggish. I wanted to cheer then slumped down in my seat.
The announcers were not helping my state of mind at all.
“Unbelievable! Carolina Crush is getting CRUSHED again!”
21-7.
Almost halftime.
If I bit my fingernails any more there’d be nothing left but nailbed.
And then Akoni got carted off the field with an injury. Better not be his goddamn ACL.
“Or his PCL,” Lou chomped on a mouthful of ice, about ready to jump out of his seat.
His tie loosened, his jacket shrugged off, he was as torn in two as me.
The Devils quarterback sent the football spiraling as the clock ticked down. He had one man in the end field, one chance to get three touchdowns ahead of us, and he was not fucking faking it out.
Last seconds. First half. Bunyan blasted the receiver off his feet, but not before the Denver player tucked the ball under his arm and hit the end zone.
Serena, completely unserene—like seriously no serenity now—stalked around the skybox. “If this is how Rafe starts the most important season of his life—”
“It’s just a glitch. This isn’t really him.” But a hole gnawed into my heart, and I worried the same thing.
Lou looked apoplectic. “This is not the fucking team we worked the blood, sweat, and shit outta all summer, Peyton.”
“Coach D will kick them into gear during halftime,” I vowed.
But I wasn’t so sure anymore either. You could only take so many beat-downs before you lost passion. All hope. Any respect for yourself and your game. And Crush had taken a lot of damn beat-downs in the first thirty minutes of this opening game.
28-7.
At the end of the second quarter, Coach D looked like he was about to chew right through his headgear immediately before the usually cool dude threw the expensive equipment to the ground.
Rafe’s shoulders slumped as he charged off the field, in the lead of our team.
Low morale all around, and my heart plummeted to my knees.
This game wasn’t just about regaining our status at the top of the NFL. Carolina Crush was a team, one family. Rafe was the quarterback, my man. We had to be all in. All the way. All the time.
Or we’d lose everything that mattered.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pey Dirt
Rafe
THIS FUCKING GAME.
That fucking team.
Goddamn turnovers.
Akoni injured.
As we tromped into the locker room at halftime I was tempted to slam my helmet against the wall.
Our first chance to redeem ourselves, and we were blowing it all to hell just like I was fucking up my love life.
I hadn’t seen Peyton before the first whistle, and I was beginning to think she was my touchstone.
Needed her.
Needed to get my head in the game and out of my ass.
I wasn’t even paying attention when a fight erupted, only this time it wasn’t me going head to head with Buck the loudmouthed Fuck.
It was Brooks. And the usually mellow dude looked about ready to rip Buckley’s sneering face right off.
“Told you once already to keep your fucking loose lips clamped shut.” Brooklyn smacked dipshit on the side of the head.
“A bitch slap? That’s all you’re good for?”
“Boy. If I lit into you like I wanted to you’d end up with broken bones. Trust.”
“You and your loser crew are screwing this team, Grizzly Adams asshole. I’m fucking surprised any of you are first stringers to start with. How much did you fuck Carolina Crush in the ass already? Only took you thirty minutes to totally tank this game. Fucking bullshit,” Buckley spat out.
And that right there was the call to arms for the rest of the team. Buck had a target on his back, and he was about to get his face kicked in.
The powerful surge of primed men in prime shape meant fight, fight, fight. Only Malone and Cross pressed forward beside Buckley, and as soon as Brooks threw a punch that crunched against the young buck’s cheek, all restraint was off.
Helmets flew.
Fists flew faster.
Full bore locker room brawl in the making.
“Yeah? And you should just keep shaking those pom-poms with the cheerleaders!” Brooklyn took another swing.
This shit needed to stop escalating before Coach D entered the room. And as much as I’d like to knock Buckley out with my fist rammed down his throat, I needed to step off.
Step up.
Man up.
I slipped right between Buckley and Brooklyn, acting like a goddamn human shield in front of my QB competition. “You wanna hit him again, you gotta go through me, Brooks.”
Angry as I’d ever seen him, Brooklyn’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck you doin’, Mac?”
“Putting this team back together, ’cause we still got a game to win.”
When the mountain man backed off, the rest of the crew stood down.
I turned to Buck. “You say another fucking word or sling one more insult, and I’ll make sure you never throw your first ball in the NFL, feel me, kid?”
He swiped a hand across his bloody lip. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“Not whatever. You got a lot to learn. I could either teach you, or I could take you out. Enough with the shitty attitude. You wanna be treated like a grown man, fucking act like one.” I held my hand out to him.
Brooks groaned in the background. “Why you gotta do that?”
Buckley shook my hand with slow pumps.
After releasing his palm, I jumped up onto a bench and whistled through my fingers. “Y’all! Listen up! Are we mean girls or we a football team?”
“Football team!”
“Damn right we are. Time to start acting like ONE TEAM.”
“ONE TEAM!”
“Time to take all this powder keg energy and turn it on the Devils. Enough of this bitch
shit. We are a powerhouse. And remember what Coach D said? This is OUR HOUSE!”
“Our house!”
“So let’s make this a career year, y’all!” I bellowed to the rafters, shouts coming right back at me.
“Man, that was beautiful.” Akoni was in the PT room, but Bunyan seemed to be channeling his emo-mess.
“Dry up the waterworks, Bunyan. I’ll give you something to cry about if you don’t hold the line.” I jumped down into a huddle.
Not before I saw Peyton lurking beyond the half-open door. And holy shit.
Was that approval?
A smile?
She gave me the thumbs up before disappearing from sight.
That was all the motivation I needed.
“All in?” I asked my men.
“All in!”
“What do we want?”
“Super Bowl ring!”
“1 2 3—” I punched my fist to the air.
“Carolina CRUSH IT!”
Cheers came back at me full force. Time to knock this shit out and knock the Denver Devils face down on the field.
I was not about to lose again.
We raced into the stadium for the third quarter revitalized. 28-7? Big deal. I shrugged that shit off and got back into captain mode.
This was the turning point, and I could handle it. I wanted it all. And that included Peyton’s heart.
Needed to give Carolina Crush fans something to believe in. Had to make sure Peyton believed in me as a man and as the leader of this team.
After the first few plays, the second half was a blur of defense and offense. Tight maneuvers and fast action passes.
Deacon Cross intercepted a ball midfield, tucked it tight against his chest, and barreled downfield at Mach speed. No fucker was catching him. The whole stadium and our entire team pulsed to their feet, Cross gunning past linemen to the Devils’ thirty, the twenty, the ten . . . THE TOUCHDOWN!
Unbelievable.
A playmaker that would be watched on repeat.
28-14 after the field goal.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby.” Coach D grabbed the grill of Cross’s helmet when he jogged over to the sidelines amid roaring chants. “Defensive touchdown.”
Just before my next turn on the field after our line held the Devils at the fifty, Coach D gripped my shoulders. “Bring it home, baby. We need scores. We need deep and complete passes. Play it large and in charge.”
