Page 16 of The Decoy

The ball snaps, and the collision at the line of scrimmage sounds like a car crash of plastic and steel. I surge forward, launching off my back foot and deliver a brutal, open-palm strike straight to the linebacker's chest. The impact sends a zing up my arm, but it does the job, just enough to stall his rush and make him think I’m staying in to protect Liam.

The second he leans into the block, I tear off his outside shoulder, plant my right cleat hard into the turf, and explode up the middle seam.

Ten yards. Fifteen. Twenty.

I clear the linebacker layer, my strides eating up turf. The Patriots’ strong safety recognizes the route and spins his hips, sinking back to cover the deep middle, but Liam’s already launched the ball. The football hangs high, a tight spiral cutting through the stadium lights.

I don’t slow down, even though visibility is fucking awful. I can’t.

I push off my feet, launching my six-foot-six frame into the air, extending both arms above the defensive back’s outstretched hands.

My fingers clamp around the leather.

Smack!

The safety slams his entire weight into my exposed ribs while I’m mid-air, a bone-rattling hit meant to separate me from the ball. Pain flares across my torso, hot and sharp, but I clamp down on the leather like a vise, tucking it tight against my chest as we crash hard to the ground together, sliding three yards across the painted grass of the end zone.

The ref blows his whistle, his arms shooting straight into the air.

Touchdown!

The stadium explodes. A wave of noise so loud it feels like it rattles the stadium.

Before I can even push myself up, Liam rushes over and hauls me up by my shoulder pads. “That’s what I’m talking about, baby!!! That’s my guy!”

When we get to the sideline, Aston sprints over alongside Saint. Both of them start pummeling the crown of my helmet with their gloved fists in an absolute, unhinged way.

“That’s right!” Aston yells, his booming laugh echoing clearly over the crowd noise as he hooks an arm around my neck. “You caught that thing in the clouds!”

“Awesome catch, brother,” Saint says, slapping my chest pad hard enough to make me cough before steering me toward the bench.

I need to catch my fucking breath.

Ten minutes later, after our defense destroys their Hail Mary attempt, the final whistle blows.

Titans 24, Patriots 21.

An hour later, the intense adrenaline from the win has completely worn off, leaving behind the literal pain of a sixty-minute professional football game.

By the time I finish post-game press, spend fifteen minutes submerged in an ice bath because apparently I’m not frozen enough, and have the training staff check my shoulder, the main locker room has largely emptied out. Most of the guys have already packed up to head to the city or home to their families.

I stand by my locker and pull on my jeans and boots, then throw on a heavy charcoal wool coat over a cream cable-knit sweater. My hair is still damp from my shower, and my body just feels heavy. I gingerly swing my duffel bag over my uninjured shoulder and pull out my phone from my locker shelf to check the time.

10:42 pm.

As I start to pocket my phone and walk toward the exit, it buzzes in my hand with an incoming text.

Ellis: Awesome catch in the fourth. That route was pure art. You still stuck inside the locker room or did you manage to escape the parking lot gridlock?

I stop walking, right in the middle of the room, and stare down at the glowing screen. A different kind of surge of adrenaline hits me, cutting through the soreness in my body.

Brody: Wait. Are you here?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Ellis: Yep. I was in the Grants’ suite with my dad.

I stare at her words, my thumb hovering over the screen.