Page 25 of Broken Saint
This time when I get to my feet, no one stops me. I start pacing back and forth in front of my locker, focusing on Sawyer’s smug-as-fuck face and the bullshit he spewed at us earlier.
They’re not going to win today. He is not going to win. He might have got in there first, but I’m the one who finishes things. And I always fucking finish.
Movement over my shoulder catches my eye, and when I look back, I find Kane and Luca watching me with matching smirks again.
“What?” I snap, coming to stop in front of them with my fists curled at my sides.
“Take that anger out on the field, Rogers. Something tells me we’re going to need it,” Luca instructs, slapping me upside the head before Coach marches into the room, commanding all our attention.
Get your fucking head in the game, Rogers. The rest of the bullshit can wait.
From our very first play, we fucking owned it. We played like a well-oiled machine of savages. The Bulls didn’t stand a chance, and every time Sawyer’s eyes locked on mine, he stoked the determination burning bright within me.
We had their defense running circles around themselves as we scored over and over. It was fucking majestic, and exactly what I needed to remind myself of what I was doing with my life.
As the fans roar in the excitement in the stands around us, I close my eyes for a beat, feeling the steady thrum of my heart in every inch of my body.
Last play of the game and the chance to put the final nail in the Bulls’ coffin.
We line up, the adrenaline of the win already coursing through our veins.
Luca calls the play as I glare Sawyer dead in the eyes, promising him a world of pain for the dirty tackle I can see him planning.
I shake my head, warning him against it before the whistle blows and we spring into action.
Luca fakes a throw in Kane’s direction. The Bulls’ defense follows it—well, all but Sawyer. His attention is still locked on me as Luca passes off the ball and I take off running.
My catch is flawless, and I tuck it under my arm as Sawyer attempts to take me down. But I’ve already got him, and we both know it.
The roar of the crowd rises to astronomical levels as I make the touchdown—but in only seconds, it becomes a blur as my teammates dive on me in celebration.
“Fucking yes,” Luca screams in my face, bumping our helmets together as he holds the sides of my neck.
The last few seconds count down on the Jumbotron before the Saints’ fans lose their shit once again over our epic win.
With Kane and Luca on either side of me, I’m turned toward the crowd, or more specifically the seats where Letty and Peyton sit for every single game we play.
They’re both dressed in their boys’ jerseys, jumping up and down, screaming in celebration. Even Kyan is beaming, his little chubby cheeks red with excitement as if he knows his dad is a fucking legend, in more ways than one.
But it’s not my teammates’ wives or cute little Kyan who catches my attention.
It’s the woman standing right in the middle of them.
Wearing. My. Fucking. Number.
As if she can feel my attention, her gaze finds mine.
It’s been years since I laid eyes on her. But the second our gazes meet, my dark to her honey, it’s like no time has passed.
That tether I’d thought I’d finally managed to sever pulls between us. It’s just like I remember. No. It’s worse than that. It’s stronger. More powerful.
And as I stand there locked in her stare while everyone around me celebrates our win, there’s only one thought in my head.
I’m fucked.
Totally fucking fucked.
I’m jostled to the side before Kane leans in closer.