The roar of the stadium seems louder today.

The stakes are higher.

We're in Texas.

The Nighthawk's longtime division rival.

Everyone is playing pretty badly in our entire conference so far, including us, but that's a good thing. That means that everything is still up for grabs including the division title and a playoff spot.

Sabrina doesn't think I listen to her, but I actually believe she's one of the smartest women that I know, and her questions about my leadership of the team made me pause.

Do I celebrate too much?

Was I disconnected from my teammates?

Do they struggle to see me as their leader?

So the last two games I've been in my teammates faces. Getting them laughing. Getting them angry. Getting them to feel something. Anything but complacency. Anything to start earning back their trust and motivate them to play for something bigger than their paychecks.

It's about twenty minutes before kick off, and I plan on turning things up even hotter for this game in particular for several reasons.

If we win it will send a message to the teams on the rest of our play schedule that we're focused, serious, and a legitimate threat. Second, this game represents a long standing rivalry that gets high television ratings every time we play, and I would hate for half of the nation to see us lose. And last and more importantly because Sabrina will be watching in person, and I want to be a winner in front of my girl.

I check in with the team assistant, Brad to find out her estimated time of arrival. I treated her and a few close friends to some seats in one of the box suites. She should have landed by now.

"Hey Brad, you did what I asked right?"

"Absolutely, Saint. The driver should have picked up her group, and they should be on their way to the stadium. They'll be in the East box suite. That was cool of you to invite the people she works with."

"People she works with?"

"At least I think they're her coworkers," he says reluctant to say any more.

I text Sabrina quickly before the Nighthawks are called onto the field.

Me: Are you here yet?

Freshman: In the van on the way there.

Me: Who did you bring?

Freshman: People from work.

That wasn't our agreement.

Me: Don't you have any other friends?

Freshman: Don't you have a game to get ready for?

Me: Who exactly did you bring, Sabrina.

Freshman: Marisol, Kate, Samuel and Jason. You happy?

Me: You've really got some balls.

Freshman: They make up the sports division. I had to invite them.

Me: No you didn't, but we'll talk about it later.

Freshman: Have a good game, Gunslinger:)

She's learning fast that it drives me crazy when she calls me that. It makes me hard and horny, because between she and I it has absolutely nothing to do with football.

Me: P.S. What are you wearing?

* * *

Today's game is probably going to go down as one of the most exciting of the season. It was a good old-fashioned shoot out between me and Anderson, the other team's veteran quarterback. First time he's been back on the field since a major back injury, and he looked twenty-one years old again if you ask me. I'm pretty sure he went to that back surgeon in Germany that everyone says is a miracle worker.

It was a three-point game up until the very last minute in the fourth quarter. Texans were up. I knew I needed to make something happen, but it was going to be hard, because the Texan defense had been blitzing me all fucking day.

We'd been running a play Coach B designed for the offense for an entire week at practice just for this very situation, but once I got to the line and saw how the defense was moving around, I decided to trust my gut and more importantly my teammates and change the play.

The new play would mean I'd have to specifically trust my tight end Cooper. A player that my brother of all people asked for me to give a chance a while back.

"Hey little brother."

"Hey, Mike."

"Thanks for taking Jake to the mountains, man. He couldn't stop talking about his awesome Uncle Saint."

"I knew the little stinker loved me."

"Listen I'm calling to put a bug in your ear."

"About what?"

"The man Cooper on your offense."

"New tight end? What about him?"

"He's the son of one of my old coaches at Georgia."

Mike and I went to different universities. Both of us on full athletic scholarships.

"So?"

"So I need you to look out for him. He's a good kid, and for some odd reason he's a fan of your arrogant ass. I'm not asking for much, just give him a chance."

"Mikey."

"Haven't I always looked out for you?"

"Yes but–"

"Don't you want to win your fucking division?"

"Obviously but–"

"So do your job. Trust your veterans and teach your rookies. Starting with Coop."

Remembering that conversation, I knew I had a split second to make a decision. So I decided to go with the play action pass. A play where I would get the ball, fake it to the running back, and then hand it over to my tight end, Cooper. The play would call for him to pretend to be blocking for me, then he'd suddenly break open, and I'd throw him the ball so that he could run it in for a touchdown. It's a call that can be practiced until you get the timing down a million times, but it's a play that really works best when there's chemistry between a quarterback and his tight end.

When I called the play, I could see the excitement and determination in Cooper's eyes. The Texans had been fucking with him a lot today. That's what's crazy about football. All the shit that's said on the field that the fans never hear. When analysts say that it's as close to war as you can come to, without actually being in a war, they are right.

Testosterone was flowing through our veins. Guys were talking about people's mothers. People's wives. Players were threatening to break each other in half. Anything to get into their opponents heads.

But I blocked all that out.

I had a game to win.

A girl to get to.

When I passed the ball to Cooper, it was a cathartic moment. A total release. Everything was happening without sound around me. All I could do was watch Coop.

Finding a hole in the defense.

Holding onto the ball like his life depended on it.

Running his fast rookie ass off.

And not stopping until he made it into the end zone.

The sound finally returned when I heard the stunned silence of the crowd and the roar of my teammates and coaching staff on the sidelines. They were running towards me at record speed. Cheering wildly.

We'd won the game.

We'd won the fucking game.

And it wasn't because of me or in spite of me. It was a team effort. It was chemistry. It was trust. It was passion. It was a belief that we actually could do it. And while I know that may not be enough to carry us all the way to the big dance this year. It's enough to make me rethink free agency and staying with the New York Nighthawks.

Leadership, trust and chemistry are grown and cultivated. I can't just pick up and go to another team every time I hit a wall. No matter how good the players are on another team. It still would be like starting all over. And I realize that even though I've been with the Nighthawks for almost four years, I'm really just beginning.

* * *

"Saint over here! Amazing win today. Tell us how it feels to finally be getting your rhythm back."

"Oh I've always had my rhythm, we just all danced a little better together today."

My teammates laugh.

I've decided that I'm not going to do any more solo press conferences unless it's league required. That's why I've brought some of my teammates to the table with me. Today that's Cooper and Kimball.

Next.

"Saint, right here. What do you think you need to do to keep up this momentum?"

"Thanks for the question, Jim, but the answer still is the same as usual. Score and win."

Next.

"Saint–"

Brad walks over and whispers in my ear. I've got to wrap this whole thing up. My girl is waiting.

"Last question," I announce.

"Saint, word has it that you have you been strategizing where you might want to land next year since you'll be a free agent. Care to divulge where you might take your talents to next year?"

Debbie downer, Myra Kitch, strikes again. We play an amazing game, pull out a win, and she always has to put a damper on things with her negativity. Never mind that she says the word talents as if it's synonymous with herpes.

"All I'm thinking about is next week's game in D.C. Nothing more, Myra."

I get up to leave.

"Have an awesome day everyone, and direct the rest of your questions to my guys here." I place my hands on their shoulders. "The best players in the game today."

I'm starting to wonder if Myra's problem is that she's always had a thing for me. When I get up to leave she watches me as if the real story is wherever I'm going. Like she's dying to follow me. She packs up her things to leave too, so she obviously has no interest in asking Kimball or Cooper any questions, which is stupid. They were a big part of why we won today.

* * *

I'm already on a high because we beat Texas, in their own house, but that feeling only mushrooms once I see her pretty ass. I have to forcibly restrain myself when she approaches because standing right beside her are four of Carson Financial's finest, including that nutsack Jason. Gah! This royal pain in my butt has been sniffing up her ass so hard lately; it's taking every bit of self control I have not to say something. But I know I can't. I've promised Sabrina that we'd keep things private and professional at work. So why the fuck did she bring her coworkers to my game then?!

"Hello, everyone."

"Hey, Mr. Stevenson!" Kate waves.

Everyone says hello and congratulates me on the win. Sweet little Kate describes their flight in great detail and how lovely it was to fly first class.

"And we had mimosas for free," she says. "And a nice chicken sandwich."

"I'm glad you liked it, Kate."

I notice that both Sabrina and Jason are a little quiet, but I leave it alone for now.

"I thought you guys could get cleaned up at the hotel and then we can go to dinner and maybe to this karaoke bar next door," I say.

Something I had Brad arrange when I thought it was going to be some of Sabrina's college friends. I was going to win them over with good food then some of my bad singing.

"Can't wait," her friend Marisol says.

"Thanks, Saint." Is all Sabrina manages to say. It's bugging me how quiet she's being.

"You're welcome."

Jason looks silently between us with a sullen look. I wonder what that look is all about.

"You coming, Jase?" I blurt out.

"Wouldn't miss it," he counters.