The crowd roars. They slam their feet against the stands, pounding out a cheer that thrums through the stadium and echoes across the field.

It’s third and nine. There’s no breathing room in this game. Two minutes till halftime, and the score is still tied. We’ve traded leads every possession, it seems.

I take the snap from shotgun as three receivers race downfield. My heart pounds rocket-fast, but my nerves are cool. My brick wall of linemen buy me time, as they’ve done all day, holding off Dallas. I scan for an open target, but McCormick is swarmed by the secondary. Another receiver is flanked, too. I find Jones, scrambling to break away from the cornerback.

“C’mon, man,” I mutter.

I’m waiting.

Fucking waiting, ready to throw the second he’s free.

A big-ass lineman busts through, but the center slams into the guy’s barrel body, protecting me as I launch the ball the instant Jones peels away from the coverage.

He doubles back, and those beautiful hands are ready. The ball soars, and he pulls it down pristinely, cradling it then carrying it for twelve yards before he runs out of bounds, avoiding a tackle.

I pump a fist and point downfield. We run, line up for the first down, and we’re all business the rest of the way. I hand off to Harlan, who powers his way around the defense, gaining eight yards, and putting us squarely in field-goal range.

But hell if I want to go for three right now. I glance to the sidelines, briefly making eye contact with the coach. He gives a nod, and even though that’s his go-to gesture for nearly everything, I know this time it means go for six. A new wide receiver comes in, bringing the play with him.

After the snap, I’m in the pocket, and I throw easily to an open McCormick, who takes off like a cheetah. The rookie hauls ass twenty-five yards into the motherfucking end zone.

The crowd erupts.

My heart jackhammers.

I run to McCormick, clapping him on the back and congratulating him as we trot to the sidelines.

“You rock, man.”

“No, you fucking do,” the rookie says, with the same baby-faced grin that Cam Newton sports.

“Beautiful,” Greenhaven grunts as I grab some water and Einstein does his job with the extra point.

That gives us a welcome seven-point lead at halftime. I take off my helmet, turn to the stands, and my eyes find my family. My mom waves a number-one foam finger, and her boyfriend, Dan, plants a kiss on her cheek. Ford shakes his hips back and forth, calling out something unintelligible that’s clearly a compliment. Next to them, Trent and Holly are hollering happily, arms raised in the air. I give them all a huge thumbs-up.

My gaze drifts beyond my best friend to his sister, the girl I’ve known for most of my life, who’s smiling up a storm and cheering like this is the best day ever.

And so far, it’s pretty fucking good.

I give her a tip of the proverbial cap then a lopsided grin. The smile that returns my way is priceless, like a shot of pure happiness in my body.

Ford drapes an arm around Violet and says something to her.

I turn away and head to the locker room with the team.

Rick chews the pink gum, spits it out, and brushes his teeth on the sidelines. Then, the defense holds off Dallas in the third quarter, but their line nearly kills me. I manage a few handoffs and a couple of short passes, but we don’t push past the fifty-yard line.

Dallas gets possession, and they march downfield with precision. My chest tightens, and I pace along the sidelines, eager to get back in because they seem on the cusp of something big. But we hold them to a field goal chance, and then something beautiful happens. They miss it, the ball going wide past the goalposts. That sends a bolt of energy into the crowd.

We take the field, pumped. I do my job, like I’ve done since I was five. Since I was ten. Since high school. Since college. Since the start of the season. Drive downfield, throwing pass after pass from the pocket, my wall of Mack Trucks protecting me.

We reach the twenty, and a short pass to Jones sends him running into the end zone to pad our lead. A lead we never look back on.

When the game ends, the crowd bursts into cheers. Horns blare. Whistles sound. Drums pound. We’re one more game away from the playoffs. So close I can taste it.

On the field, a local sports reporter thrusts a mic at me, and I give my best “We just played all four quarters and stayed focused” kind of lines. When she walks off to find another player, my eyes drift to the stands, scanning, searching. They land on faces I know well, and the buzzing in my chest is like a note held long on a guitar. It shifts to a faster tempo when I see Violet. She’s waving like a crazy fool, her arms swinging wildly over her head, her chestnut hair blowing in the breeze. When she realizes she’s caught my attention, she freezes, then jumps up and down in excitement. Something is happening. Something is building.

I follow my instincts, and they tell me to run over to the sides, find a security guy, and ask him to bring her onto the field. A minute later, she’s escorted to me. I wrap her up in a hug and lift her high.

“You’re all sweaty and dirty,” she says, laughing.

“That’s because I play hard.”

“You sure do.”

“Did you enjoy the game?”

“Loved it.”

“Yeah?”

A smile curves her lips. “Every single second.”

The noise in the stadium vibrates in my chest, a mixture of cheers, chatter, and fifty thousand feet pounding to the exits. But this conversation feels entirely private. Just for us.

So does the kiss she gives me next. She brings her mouth to mine, dusts her lips across me, and steals the breath from my lungs. I’m vaguely aware of the pop and flash of cameras capturing this moment. It doesn’t last long, but the kiss feels like it’s for me, not the lens.

And maybe it’s the way my heart hammers after the victory, or maybe it’s the taste of her lips, but it’s enough for me to bring my mouth to her ear. “Hang out with me tonight.”

She pulls back and looks up at me. “Yeah?”

I swallow and nod. “Yeah.”

She has to know what I mean.