At the line Mr. No Humor is glaring. “You ready for me, Blondie?”
I put my toe on the line, hunkering down low enough to let him think that I’ll charge him at the snap. “Now, I’m gonna block your ass,” I tell him nice and conversational-like. “But that don’t mean I want your *, ’kay?”
The dumb ones fall the hardest. It’s almost too easy. He practically vibrates with fury. “Gonna run right over your pretty face.”
I blow him a kiss, pretending I’m paying attention to him, when really I’m breathing hard and deep, drawing in more oxygen to enrich my blood, moving my weight to the balls of my feet so I can take off. My body draws tight, like a crossbow about to be launched.
Cal’s voice rings out. “Hut!”
The world explodes into motion. Thinking I’m going to block, the lineman steps left, roaring with aggression. I step right. He blows right past me as I sprint down the open lane my guys have made for me. Blood rushes through my veins; everything is muffled grunts, bodies smashing into each other, and my pounding feet. Ten yards out, I cut right, pivot, body angled toward Cal, and the ball sails into my waiting hands.
That’s all I need. Another burst of energy surges. Spinning, I sprint down the field, a lineman on my ass. In my periphery, a safety is barreling toward me. They don’t know what I know. Now it’s all about physics. Velocity, mass, momentum.
The lineman hooks his arms around me, intent on dragging me to the ground. But I’m bigger, stronger. Holding the ball low and tight, I hunker down, dropping my center of gravity. I drag him with me, the bulk of his body colliding into mine actually increasing my momentum. And when the safety hits us, he’s useless because he’s coming at the combined weight of me and the lineman. It’s too much mass for a guy his size to handle.
Their dead weight works against them, dragging them down my moving body. I break free. One, two, three tip-toe steps along the edge of the sideline, then I’m off again, maximum velocity toward the end zone. Footsteps pound behind me. Hot breath on my neck.
Fuck that noise. I run full out. My lungs burn, my muscles scream, but I don’t stop. Another safety comes at me from the left.
Still running, I reach back and strong-arm him, my hand at his collar. We’re barreling down the field, almost at the end zone. He falls in front of me, and I leap, my foot clipping his helmet.
I’m tumbling, ball clenched tight, my body flipping head over ass. Don’t lose sight of that little orange cone, though. It’s right there. Just get the ball over.
With a grunt, I twist, fall toward it, body extended and arm outstretched, my hand holding on tight to the ball. Bodies slam into mine with explosions of pain and deep grunts.
We crash into the turf with bone-shaking force. I see stars. But I’ve done it. Touchdown. Whistles blow, refs’ arms in the air. And the roar of the crowd rushes over the field.
* * *
Winning a huge game is like nothing on earth. The noise of the crowd is deafening. A roar that vibrates my bones and rings in my ears. Confetti flies, and the energy of eighty-thousand shouting spectators surges across the field on a wave that gives me a hard-on. I’m so high on it that I’m literally bouncing, screaming and whooping as I go.
My team is bouncing with me. Hard slaps of victory hit my back, my pads, my head. I thrust my fist toward the sky. We fucking did it. We fucking won. We’re going to the National Championship. My skin prickles with pride.
Pandemonium is the name of the game now. I barely remember giving interviews. I know I said the standard lines, of being grateful for my team, of being happy to win, and the need to buckle down for the championship game. It’s all true, but my attention is diverted.