Super Bowl Baller

Calder

 

 

 

THE SIDEWINDERS PUNT TO us landed us firmly entrenched on our thirty-yard line.

Our first play decided, helmet grills slammed down, we knocked fists then lined up, Rafe behind me. Some big mean fucker hunched in front of me. He looked like he wanted to pound me into next week.

Good.

I couldn’t wait to go at it, strength for strength.

Heavy cold breaths steamed in and out of our nostrils, my ears attuned to Rafe as he called the shot, knuckles punched to the frosty turf.

Snap!

The Mac Daddy of the team palmed the ball behind me when I passed it off, and then I went full-bore badass-motherfucker on the blocker in front of me.

We hurled together with a bone-shaking clash. As soon as I bowled him back a few feet, I shoved him down to the turf. I rounded on the next tackler, determined to give Rafe the time and space to complete his play.

Overhead, the pigskin arced. It whistled past, just out of arm’s reach as it jetted downfield. I took another three players to the ground, running in a zigzag to speed my way toward Brooks who was open, ready, and waiting for the catch.

I laid into the last San Fran defender just before he could slam into Brooklyn.

Brooks wasted no time, snatching that ball from the air like he had magnets at the end of his fingertips. Spinning away, he dug in, and jammed on the gas. Marquis was the only one faster than him.

Well, maybe Delaney Jones, too.

The Sidewinders couldn’t catch him. They didn’t bring him down—football cuddled like a delicate baby to his chest—until he made it all the way to their thirty-yard line.

Nice.

We made our first seven points right after that. Only four more minutes on the clock. The Sidewinders could fucking suck it.

We weren’t backing down. We were bringing it, play for play.

Those bastards should’ve stayed home and worked on their tans.

I wasn’t cold anymore as I sprinted off field, hand clasped to Brooklyn Holt’s shoulder. Damn dude, finally managed to score the first TD instead of Marquis.

Neck and neck, we answered each of their touchdowns with one of our own. This Super Bowl was like fucking MMA, the back and forth fast-paced and furious.

Physical and fierce.

Brutal and bruising.

At one point, during a skirmish with the meathead who always lined up opposite me, he almost managed to pop my shoulder joint out of socket. Searing pain—fiery hot—shot up my arm, and tears stung my eyes. I bit down on my mouthguard and turned that agony into unyielding strength.

I drove Dickhead to the turf, springing at him when he thought he’d already bulldozed me.

I enjoyed his look of what the fuck before I jumped over him.

Marquis—pigskin cuddled in his forearm—had shuttled downfield but was nearly surrounded. I wasn’t even close to him, but damn if I was gonna let our best wide receiver go down on my watch.

Fuck that noise.

As center, I was the jack-of-all-trades on the team, and right then I was prepared to trade ball-busting bruises and body-punching hits for a chance to guard Marquis on his run.

Wheeling off Sidewinder tackler after tackler just like a pinball in a machine—Tilt!—I ate yardage until I shoved right through the ring enveloping Marquis as he fought to get free. Other Crush players joined me, and we tore open a pathway for Marquis, watching him shoot downfield.

It wasn’t the cold air that rose chills on my arms as I held huge men at bay. It was the fucking thrill of the game absolutely vibrating through me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.

I barely heard the ref’s shrill whistle when Marquis slammed into the end zone.

My heart almost pogo’d outta my chest as I saw him do a double backflip right in front of the field goal.

San Fran had the last run before halftime. On the sidelines, I notched my helmet back and guzzled a Gatorade. Brooklyn crowded beside me. Other than Coach D and Coach Sam, no one spoke, and those two only conversed in hushed tones after Akoni had herded his dudes onto the field.

Our two teams were neck and neck at 35 to 35, and we did not wanna close out the first half with a point deficit.

Thirty seconds on the clock. But thirty measly seconds was plenty of damn time to score at the last minute. And by the time there was still four seconds left until halftime, it looked like we might end the goddamn first half with a fucking point deficit.

The Sidewinders quarterback took the snap at our ten-yard line.

Facing off with their offense, Deacon Cross punched forward, Akoni surged from the left, and Bunyan rounded from behind. The three men performing a move they’d practiced a million times in prep for the Super Bowl.

The Sidewinders didn’t expect such massive men to be so fucking agile. And not a single one of them expected the three-pronged sneak attack that sacked their QB three seconds after he got his hands on the ball.

That time I heard the whistle loud and clear, signaling halftime.

The two titanic linebackers chest bumped. Probably shook the ground all the way to the earth’s core. Tilt.

Deacon Cross, defensive tackle, backed away from the pair, waving his hands in the air like a white flag. He wanted no part of their celebratory manhandling because . . . hello, concussion.

“How you like AK now?” Akoni pounded his chest, prancing around, as much as a three hundred-plus-pounder could prance.

As always Akoni proved surprisingly light on his feet.

The crowd blasted up from their seats. A wave of contagious energy rippling through the arena as we hustled off the field, and the halftime show roadies darted out from all corners of the stadium.

In the locker room, towels strewn, cleats unlaced, gear everywhere, we mopped down and hydrated up. We didn’t congratulate ourselves. Not yet. All the motherfucking cards were on the table, and we didn’t know who’d end the night with the winning hand. But a tie score was better than trying to dig out of a hole.

I returned from taking a leak to hear Bunyan all but bleating, “Oh man. I really wanna catch this halftime show.”

“You got a thing for Rihanna now?” Rafe asked.

“I got a thing for legs.” Bunyan tossed back mouthfuls of water. “Speaking of, when are we gonna see Reggie again, Calder?”

I flipped big Biggs the big middle finger.

Akoni rested a timber-sized arm over my shoulder, shooting a look at his linebacker buddy. “Leave him alone. You razzed him enough about the letters.”

Damn right he had.

Bunyan squinted in my direction. “Just miss the little lady, that’s all. ’Sides, I think she was good for ya.”

The yokels kept up with the yadda yadda, but thankfully the jeers turned to Brooklyn after he complained, “Damn, I think my junk almost froze to my cup out there. Delaney ain’t gonna be happy about that.”

“Especially if you lose your Girth Brooks status?” I knocked him on the shoulder.

“Y’all are just jealous.”

Buckley cut in. “That you scored Delaney maybe.”

That time he roused laughs instead of ire. Kid was learning. It’d just taken him a few motherfucking months.

“I think we all deserve a trip to the Bahamas if we win.” Marquis tucked a band around the dreadlocks threaded down his back, corralling the mass of hair.

“You payin’?” Brooks asked.

“You fucking poor all of a sudden, playa?”

And thus went our halftime while the crowd outside was entertained by one of the biggest pop stars in the world and a lightshow to rival any in Vegas.

Coach gave us another inspiring pep talk.

Peyton—now about four months pregnant and beginning to show—made her appearance, too.

The words they spoke boiled down to the same recipe for a win: Play with heart. Go out there with pride in the game. Don’t fucking back down.

Oh yeah, and: Win the Lombardi Trophy once and for all.

****

Unfortunately, the second half brought on the bad news. The Sidewinders had reservoirs of fuel in their tanks. Teeth gritted, jaws clamped, taking you fuckers down written all over them.

Despite the frigid temperature and snow flurries fluttering down, sweat rolled down my face. Blurred my eyes.

Bruises marched all along my body from bone-breaking blows. Luckily we had thick skins and thick skulls to go with.

And thick in the fourth quarter—Sidewinders with a seven-point lead—they blitzed the holy hell out of Rafe, pinning him briefly to the ground. He didn’t pump back to his feet like usual.

Whistles blew.

Coaches D and Mark ran out onto the field followed by our head PT, Angela.

We ringed around him, the clock stopped.

“Peyton’s gonna be pissed if I miss the rest of the game,” Rafe ground out between tight teeth.

Angela held his hand out from his body. “Oooh. Poor baby, Wafey, got another damn booboo on the finger he dislocated last summer.”

Without an ounce of sympathy, she popped the knuckle back into place.

Rafe’s lips parted, but he made no sound at all.

We all winced. Everyone knew better than to ask Angela to baby them.

“Ice on it. Now.” She glared at the rest of us. “What are you looking at?”

Holy fuck.

We scurried back into place as Rafe walked off the field to massive ear-banging roars from the stands.

Couldn’t believe my eyes when Coach Frank pushed Luke Buckley onto the turf.

“Holy shitballs,” Brooklyn muttered.

“Looks like the kid’s up,” I said.

“Cornhusker in the hiz-ouse!” Marquis seemed less concerned than the rest of us, swinging his dreads over his shoulder as he helmeted up.

Jesus Christ. We had possession, but this was a crucial play.

Buckley could fuck up our Super Bowl dreams.

He’d never even taken the field during a regular season game.

No time to worry about that shit, I tucked an arm around his shoulder when he bounded up like a young pup with no fucking clue at all.

“Don’t you goddamn dare let the nerves eat at you, man.”

“Pretty hard to go all out when I’m second string to the Mac Daddy. Dude already has a Super Bowl ring.” Luke looked about ready to puke his guts out.

“Lemme get this straight. You took Nebraska to an undefeated season. Shot balls like your arm was on fire.” I grabbed his chin guard. “You worried about you or if we got your back?”

“Both. Everything. I dunno.”

I felt Buckley’s nerves rolling off him—ping ping ping.

Bent my helmet to his. “First time in the NFL. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty big game.

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

“Get ready to own it.” I slapped his helmet, huddled up to listen to his play maker.

I agreed. One hundred percent.

Brooklyn did, too. A pump of his fist against Buckley’s giving the green kid just that much more confidence.

Marquis and the rest of us had hazed him hundreds of times, but now he needed to know he had us in his pocket, and we wouldn’t let anyone else take him out of pocket.

Marquis bumped his fist. “Do it. Prove it.”

We all clapped our hands. Got into formation. Third down and five on the Sidewinders thirty.

I’d practiced a million times with Rafe and Buckley. I couldn’t let myself wonder if he’d miss the handoff. He had to own this one.

I heard him pop his neck, crack his knuckles. I felt him get in position behind me, steadying his breaths and taking control.

Snap!

Buckley captured the football one-handed, just like we taught him.

The defensive dickhead toe-to-toe with me went full ragey in my face.

“Oh no, boy, you ain’t getting to the kid tonight.” I hammered him five yards downfield and ended him with a back-splat.

Everyone tight, we protected Luke Buckley on his first play—first fucking play in the Super Bowl of all things.

Unbelievably, he found the deep pocket, and all I could do was watch—seconds frozen in time—as the ball flew like a hawk straight into Brooklyn’s outstretched hands.

As Brooks took the last leap and dive to the end zone to even the score, I could almost hear the announcers:

In-cred-ible! In the final minutes of Super Bowl 2017, Luke Buckley gets his first trial run and he nails it. Annihilates it! The Cornhusker, the Golden Boy, shines through for Carolina Crush. Helllooooo, Midwest, and welcome to the Carolina Crush!

I raced up to Buckley as we ran off field. “How’d that feel?”

“Like the night I popped my cherry.”

“Pretty sure that’s what you just did.” Brooks stopped long enough to throw Buckley a sledgehammer-sized fist tap.

The Sidewinders took the field, snow beginning to come down heavier all around. Mighty breaths frosted from flaring nostrils. Nine minutes between two teams and the Super Bowl Trophy. Even score.

Rafe walked up to Buckley. “And that’s how you do it.” He met Buckley’s fist then grabbed him around the neck. “But if you think you’re bringin’ home the ring just because I almost broke my finger you’re dead wrong.”

Chuckles filtered through the rest of us, settling as soon as the Sidewinders got their hands on the football to make their drive.

Our defense could not, better not, let the Sidewinders score.

San Fran made a valiant—vicious and violent—effort. No doubt about that. When they made it to our twenty, my heart clenched like a vise gripped it.

But then it was third and eight because our line drilled them backward during the second play.

Harsh breaths gusted in and out of my chest. I didn’t blink. Their talented quarterback would have no problem making a TD money shot given half the chance.

The play began. Akoni led the charge forward, ramped up like a Hawaiian mad man. With Bunyan at his back, he bulldozed past blockers, and—holy motherfucking yes—delivered the blitz right back to the San Francisco Sidewinders!

TD attempt failed, forcing the punt to our team.

Monumental shouts cascaded through the arena, shivered like a visible force over my body.

No time to think. We took possession after their punt downfield.

The flurries from before had become near blizzard-like conditions. My fingers were numb, my heart thumping, pumping.

Fans stampeded to their feet:

“Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy!”

“Baller! Baller! Baller!”

“Calder! Calder! Calder!”

I shook my head, settled my shit. I stamped my feet, punching footprints into the snow, and play began.

What felt like seconds later, we’d managed to doggedly push forward—the runs and passes and throws on point in the pursuit of a final, game winning touchdown.

I felt no pain, no cold, no fear. Not anymore. Final play. Super Bowl 2017. New season. New team.

New dreams.

Tie to overcome. No one on the Crush squad wanted to drag this shit into an overtime, an occurrence that had never happened in the history of the Super Bowl.

Wasn’t gonna happen on our watch either.

We hoped.

I hoped just to keep my hands from fumbling, shaking.

I knew my folks were watching this game, as were millions of others.

“Not the shotgun formation again,” I muttered as soon as I saw the gleam in Rafe’s eyes before the play that would either make us or break us.

“Nah. Something a little different this time,” he murmured.

Voice low, he gave the word to take the Sidewinders feet right out from under them.

We were the Crush. The lightning. The thunder. And we hadn’t made it to the Super Bowl by being anything less than fast on our feet and fucking football savvy.

Boosted by Buckley’s unerring play, team morale soared to the fricking Sky Box where Peyton Fox-Macintyre no doubt watched our every move.

“Ready to shake this shit up and bring the game home?” Rafe—the football whisperer—asked.

Silent tense nods. Low muttered words of approval. Knuckle bumps. Then our third down. Our final hope. The end zone beckoned.

Rafe took the snap.

I blocked like a fucking bull on the charge while he sailed back as if scanning his options. Brooklyn snuck around, and Rafe made the fake hand-off to him. Brooks began his run downfield, huddling over thin air as if he nestled the ball in his arms.

And Rafe tore off down the other side with the Sidewinders momentarily distracted by the bootleg play.

The football held close to his chest, he sprinted with the full force of love for his wife, pride for his game, victory for his team compelling him forward.

And—fuck me—he drove it all the way home for Peyton.

In the flash of seconds, we’d won Super Bowl 2017!

I’d barely managed to drag in a breath before the entire team rushed Rafe in the end zone. It was a jumble of red and white and arms and legs and hugs and high fives as the roar of Carolina Crush fans heaved louder than ever before.

Streamers fell through the air, mingling with the snow.

Brooklyn lifted a laughing Rafe up onto his shoulder.

Coach D grinned so big I thought his face was gonna break apart.

Fireworks shredded the black night sky.

Reporters swarmed the field, trying to get a soundbite from anyone who would listen, but we were celebrating too hard to pay any attention whatsoever.

The Gatorade cooler was upended for a sticky shower.

I heard Peyton shout, probably at her new husband, Rafe, “Don’t you dare douse me with that!”

We soaked Coach D until he was wet all the way through. He didn’t give a fuck as he stood dripping in the possibly subzero temps, the smile never leaving his face and a boisterous laugh coming straight from his belly.

Winning the biggest fucking game in the NFL with no one of my own to share it with suddenly brought it all home.

Reggie is home.

A reporter finally snagged me. “Who’d have thought underdogs Carolina Crush would ride this season all the way to the Super Bowl and come out with a victory!” He shoved a mic in my face. “Calder Malone! Black sheep of the NFL no longer. How does it feel to . . .?”

He kept rambling on, but I barely registered.

“Sorry, man.” I started walking away.

Then I started sprinting.

“Where you going, Calder?” Brooks called out.

“I gotta go. I gotta get to Reggie.”

“Right now?” He looked at me like I’d completely lost the plot, even though he knew better than anyone how I felt about the woman.

“What’s the rush, Malone?” Those words halted me. Only that time it wasn’t Brooklyn asking.

The voice came from close behind me.

The voice I’d wanted to hear so much.

Stunned, I spun slowly. “Reggie?”