“Good,” he murmured. “Then go to sleep.”
Another laugh bubbled out of me, softer this time, already half-asleep. I felt his breathing start to slow, deep and steady beneath my cheek.
“Love you,” he slurred, already drifting.
“Love you more,” I whispered back.
“Impossible…” he mumbled.
With his arms locked around me, heart strong and solid against mine, and not a trace of the day’s frown anywhere on my face, I finally slipped into sleep.
Chapter Thirty-four
Ben
Wewon.
Again. And again.
Christ, we were on fire. Couldn’t be stopped. This was the best season the Mountain Lions had ever had, and even though my body was feeling it—oh, was I feeling it—I didn’t want to stop.
We were in postseason. The semis were in our pocket, and we were so close to taking the conference finals, I could taste it. Knowing my family was here—my brothers and two girls—kept me wired. Ignoring the burn in my muscles and bruising reaching all the way down to my bones.
I looked up, wiping the sweat pouring down my forehead. The clock bled into the red,79:42.
The noise in the stadium was unreal—thick, electric, crawling over my skin. In my mind, though, I heardtheirvoices through it. I didn’t have to see them to feel them. Like hands on my back, pushing me through the pain.
We were down by two, 22–20.
My legs were shot. My lungs were on fire. Every breath sliced at my ribs. Sweat stung my eyes. Tape hung loose off my wrists. My shirt was half torn. I tasted blood and metal and mud.
Then the whistle screamed, signaling a penalty advantage in our direction.
I lifted my head, scanning the line. The defense had spread wide, bracing for a kick. The smart, safe strategy. The one every coach on the planet would’ve called. Everyone expected it.
Except Murphy.
He glanced at me, just once, a flash of teeth through his mouth guard.
You ready, Eight?
I nodded, even though everything in me was close to breaking.
“Ben!” the nine yelled.
The pass came at me fast and sharp, thudding into my chest. For half a heartbeat, it seemed like the crowd sucked in a collective breath. Not because I had the ball—because they realized weweren’tplaying it safe.
A big forward charged straight at me. I dropped my shoulder and stepped hard off my right. Pain knifed up my leg, but I didn’t care. I slammed through him. Another body collided into me, hands hooking into my jersey, cleats raking down my calf.
I stayed up. I knew they were watching, and I was bringing this win home for them.
Ten meters. Then five. The line was close enough to taste.
The fullback dove for my legs, arms wrapping around my thighs, trying to drag me back into the hell of the last eighty minutes.
I pushed with everything I had left. Every second of sacrifice. Every lonely road game. Every doubt. All of it channeled into one final drive.
When I was close enough, I lunged. My hand slapped down over the white line with a thud. For one impossible second, it was dead quiet. Then the world detonated.
