Page 151 of Forever Offsides

“I’m good,” I promise him because I am. It was a loooonnnnngggg recovery. Lots of time with PT and OT. Lots of time getting stronger and building myself up. Lots of time working to stay on my feet and adjusting to life without a spleen, which, as a medical provider, isn’t so easy.

But Rhett was by my side the entire time.

Hell, the man refused to leave. Long nights and dark mornings and helping me in the shower and all the spaces in between. He’d hold me and smile and kiss my lips and tell me I was his. And I was.

He legit moved himself into my house before I got home. I accused him of being a stalker but was happy to have him there instead of my parents moving me into their place or Crew trying to do that. Rhett told them he had me, and he wanted to be the man in charge, and he was.

I’d push back, uncomfortable with the vulnerability or him taking care of me. He’d tease me and say it was nice to know I’d do the same in his old age, which was around the corner—his words not mine—but he also didn’t listen to my shit. He loved me with undying intensity despite all the obstacles and social crap. And because of him, I became stronger, faster.

I didn’t step foot into the OR until the end of December, two months after the accident. It was brutal for me. I was chomping at the bit. But I also couldn’t compromise patient care, so it was what it was.

“Tell me when it’s fucking over!” he barks against me.

“He signed wait. Wait! Oh my fucking god!” I grip the back of Crew as San Fran drops back and looks like they are actually going to throw the long ball, but a half-beat later, they throw a short-center-screen pass, but our guys are ready. Gabriel Jackson is on it, reading the signs and the play, and nails their guy out of the way to intercept the ball.

“Oh my god!” I scream at the top of my lungs and Crew jumps back and spins around at the same time. He flies into the air, his arms rising higher. Mason—hell, all of us—are right there with him.

“Go! Go!” Mason is yelling. We all are. But he’s running down the field as fast as he can go. He’s slow and runs out of steam and the opposing team is able to grab him and bring him down. But we’re on the fifty-yard line with forty-six seconds left.

Mason gives our dad a look. Then gives Crew the same one.

“Coach?” He yells out for Rhett, who comes over. “We’re winning this motherfucker right here.”

“You have a thought?” Rhett asks.

“They’ll be expecting us to play it cautiously. To get within field goal range, which is only another twenty yards. We have a first down and a timeout so there’s plenty of clock to play with. They’re going to expect some short passes to the sidelines.”

Rhett tilts his head. “Talk to me, Captain. What’s your game plan?”

It’s not a question, but Mason and Crew are in this right now.

“Fade route left, fake to Daniels, and hit Crew on the right by the twenty.”

Rhett stares his QB down and finally nods. “This is your play, Mason Reyes. Your legacy. Make them feel it.”

The three of them fist-bump and head onto the field. Rhett walks over to me the moment my brothers and father are gone, wraps his hand around my neck, and kisses me right here on the fucking field at the Super Bowl.

“What are you doing?” I cry out.

He grins against my lips. “Staking my claim, Dr. Reyes. While the world will be all over your brothers winning this game for us, if there are pictures of me kissing you, all I’m going to say is it’s about damn time.” He gives me a wink. It’s a little dirty and a lot flirty. It’s all I get before he saunters back to the sidelines like a fucking hot-as-sin boss.

Mason goes out and throws the fucking ball up in the air despite the analytics and the world saying it’s a mistake. Crew catches it and runs out of bounds at the thirty-three.

We line up and do a running play that ticks off more seconds until we hit sixteen. Then we call a timeout. My heart is beating faster than it ever has before. So fucking hard. My parents’ grip on my hands is bruising. We’re all a mess.

But my guys are not. They’ve got this. The three of them work as a unit and head back onto the field. They could kick the field goal, but there’s enough time to run another play. Mason fakes the handoff but runs a fade route, and one of our receivers nabs the ball and trails out with ten seconds left.

The field goal unit lines up, and the kicker boots the ball straight through the double sticks to win it.

And the world goes sideways with excitement. Rhett picks me up off the ground and buries his lips against mine. We kiss as if the world were on fire around us, which it legitimately is. It’s one thing after another. Confetti and trophies and awards, and it goes on and on. Mason wins MVP. He shares it with Crew.

Shockingly, no one asks Rhett about me. Maybe they didn’t catch the kisses, or maybe no one wants to chat about it at the Super Bowl. Who knows.

All I know is by the time we make it back to the hotel, it’s late, and we’re all wiped out. Happy. So fucking happy! OMG, we won the Super Bowl with a brand-new coach and a broken yet strong team. We freaking did it despite the flak the adversity and the doubt.

“Ah!” I scream and it comes straight from my lungs. “You did it! You’re a Super Bowl-winning coach, and you did it in your first year!”

I get a side-eye. “You understand that intensifies the pressure, right? It means no one will expect a losing season from me again.”