The final down of the game, fifteen seconds on the clock, fourth quarter. I had led a drive into the red zone. We had to score a touchdown; a field goal was not enough to secure the victory. Notre Dame’s defense hadn’t missed a damn beat all night and I had one last chance to wrestle the win from their stubborn clutches.
Calling a, “Crimson Two, Crimson Two,” in the huddle, we moved into position, ready to execute an option play called by Coach himself. “Down… set… Hut, hut,” I calmly yelled, taking the shotgun from the center.
I immediately looked for Porter. Shit! He was covered. I checked down to Carillo. Fuck! Not an option. Stepping back, I scanned the wider field, Jimmy-Don giving me precious few seconds.
Now!
Seeing a running lane, I set off, my breath echoing in the casing of my helmet as I powered onward, the end zone clear in my sights. I visualized making the touchdown. I felt the elation of winning the game, willing it into reality.
I pushed my tired legs to their absolute limits, every muscle screaming, and I broke the plane—touchdown!—then spiked the ball.
The sensation of victory hit me hard, but I didn’t freeze. We’d taken it. We’d f**king won.
Staring up to the sky, I pulled down my jersey, kissed my hand, placed it on my tattooed wings, and held it up high, praying, “This one’s for you, my angel. This one’s for you…”
Suddenly the whole team dove on me. TV reporters, Tide staff, and fans alike flooded the field. “Sweet Home Alabama” blasted around the stadium as hundreds of fireworks burst in the sky, celebrating our win.
After many congratulations and hugs, I stared over a sea of heads to see my girl sat in her seat, crying, Ally holding Molly in her arms. I glanced to the Jumbotron, still showing replays of my celebration.
The wings. She’d seen the wings—I just hoped she loved them too.
The Tide was swiftly caught up in the whirlwind of our win. After the trophy presentation and painful TV interview eulogizing my award as the championship’s MVP, I jumped off the stage and ran to my girl, immediately lifting her up and exclaiming, “We won, baby!”
Throwing me a smile, she replied, “I’m sooo proud of you.”
One hand holding her gorgeous ass, the other caressing the bare skin of her back, I confided, “I need to be alone with you. Now.”
We took off, heading for the player’s tunnel, ignoring shouts from the coaching staff calling me back. Fuck them all. I needed to be alone with my girl.
Molly giggled, nuzzling my neck, and asked, “Don’t you have to be with the team?”
“You want to give them all an after show? Because right now all I can think of is being inside you, and no matter where we are in thirty minutes, it’s happening.”
Golden-brown eyes widened, and she sucked in a low breath. “We need to go… like now.”
Relaxing for the first time in weeks, I exhaled in relief. “Glad we’re finally on the same f**kin’ page.”
34
NFL Draft
Radio City Music Hall, New York
Four Months Later…
“The first draft… for the next NFL season… for Seattle Seahawks… is… quarterback… Romeo Prince… from… the Alabama Crimson Tide!!!”
A warm wave of relief washed over my body, and I closed my eyes.
I’d done it. And hell, I was the first pick draft. I was the best f**king player in the country… I was worth something after all.
An excited high-pitched scream sounded in my ear and my girl pulled me to my feet. Unable to resist getting caught up in the moment, I lifted her to my lips and kissed her over and over. I pulled back and she whispered, “Baby, you did it.”
As I looked into Molly’s eyes, I remembered a time when I wasn’t sure she’d ever come back to me, never mind be right here beside me as my life changed and my dream came true, or at least half of my dream.
A steward tapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Prince, we need to go to the stage now. Please follow me.”
Nodding and squeezing Molly’s hand one more time, I turned to the corridor, a huge friggin’ camera following me the entire way. I took the Seahawks baseball cap handed to me and, placing it on my head, walked onto the stage.
The lights and the noise were blinding.
The commissioner pulled me in close as he shook my hand, saying, “Well done, son! You got to be feeling pretty damn happy right now!”
Slightly dazed by all of the attention, I just nodded numbly, and he handed me my Seahawks jersey, the feel of it in my hands and the PRINCE 7 on the back too much to take in.