Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Which is funny to me because I’ve seen how the actual pros handle a W, and it’s anything but classy or demure.
Franklin’s able to secure the conversion, which puts them in the lead, but when I glance at the clock and realize there’s still so much game left to play, I make a decision.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to go to any of Peyton’s games in the future. My heart can’t take it.”
The others laugh at me, but I’m not joking.
“Nah, in the future, you can be in the WAP box and getting drunk while you pretend to watch,” Brady says.
“Do I want to ask what a WAP box is?”
“Wives and Partners. It used to be Wives and Girlfriends, but with the changes the league has seen over the years—”
“You’re welcome, football,” Talon says.
“Yeah,” Brady continues. “Because of these two idiots, they came up with a new acronym.”
“And something that also means wet ass pussy is the best they could come up with? I have to admit, alcohol would make this better.” I could really go for a drink.
“Peyton’s got this,” Talon says. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I dunno,” Brady adds. “I’m a bit worried about Franklin’s defense. If they keep letting Alabama score, it won’t matter how good Peyton is playing.”
I groan. “Football is a real form of torture.”
Miller throws his arm around me. “Welcome to the club.”
I fucking hate football.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
peyton
I fucking love football. Nothing emphasizes it more than when I’m deep in the middle of a game with adrenaline pumping, anticipation thrumming through my veins, and the need to win simmering under my fingertips.
It’s been a fight, but we aren’t done yet. At halftime, we’re neck and neck. In the third, Alabama pulls ahead. There’s only one touchdown in it, but that could change any second. And as I sit on the sidelines watching them trying to score again in the last quarter, an eerie calm settles over me.
This is the last college game I will ever play, and going into it, the pressure to win was hanging over the team like a dark cloud. For me, it’s not so much about winning but making it the game to remember.
Some of these guys will be in the draft with me in a few months. For others, this is the end of the line. So when I told my team in the locker room to go out there and play with their hearts, they all listened.
I reminded them of why we’re all here.
For the love of the game.
For the thrill of the win.
And even for the devastation of a loss.
Walking away without the championship will be heartbreaking but not as crushing as never having experienced what it was like to play in a real-life professional stadium, televised for everyone to watch.
This is our glory.
Our legacy.
Win or lose.
And with some divine intervention and a fumble that will haunt Alabama forever, we gain back possession of the ball.
It’s my time to shine.
A touchdown and a conversion will put us in the lead, but it has to be nothing less. Alabama managed a two-point conversion with their last touchdown, which means getting it across the line isn’t enough. We need the extra point to get us where we need to be. Especially when the clock is running out, and it’s now or never.
But I can worry about that when the time comes. I need to do my part.
The play is teed up, ready to go. The team looks strong. And as we take our places in the line of scrimmage, I breathe in deep. I remind my guys of the play. I call for the snap, and we all move as one.
Some plays are textbook, some barely get the job done, and then there are the ones that will go down as the biggest flukes known in football history.
I’d rather end my college career on a play that is so well done that it will be talked about as being the perfect play. Unfortunately, it’s as if Alabama know which play we’re going to run before we even make a move.
My wide receiver is blocked. My tight end is on the ground. I’m running out of options fucking fast. And while this isn’t the play we intended, I wing it and pass the ball off to my running back, who shoots around the scrimmage and goes for it.
Alabama’s safeties are on his ass, though, and my breath gets caught in my throat as I glance between the time left and how far we’ve got left to get in the end zone.
We’re taken down at the twenty-yard line. We got way more yardage than we should have for a play we pulled out of our asses on the fly, but it might be enough.
With less than a minute to get us over that last hurdle, the drive to push our limits hits. We have one last time-out in our back pocket, and I call it.