Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Cull…”
“We have a team meeting. Promise. I gotta jet. Did you forget I’m going to win my first playoff game as a Rush in a few days, which is just the first step toward getting our ring?”
She sighed, clearly knowing what I was doing. “Call me later, okay? I love you, Cullen.”
“I love you, too.” I ended that call.
Emotions were dumb. I needed to get this shit for Houston under control.
Our wild card game was against Tennessee. They were pretty equally matched with us, but Garrett and I were faster than their wide receivers. Honestly, G was probably the fastest in the league. We were both great route runners; Garrett just had speed like no one in the fucking game. Couple that with my strength and longer history of making difficult catches and ability to track the ball, and we should be unstoppable. We would be unstoppable.
And we were taking the W tonight. There was no chance I was letting us lose this game.
The stadium was so loud the ground felt like it was vibrating beneath my feet. My heart was already threatening to break out of my chest as I watched the coin toss, which Tennessee won. They chose to receive, so I started the game on the sidelines with our D taking the field.
“Fuck, I’ll never get over this feeling,” Tucker said, bouncing on the balls of his feet beside me as we watched the kickoff.
I could feel the energy pulsing around us, pulsing inside of me as Tennessee ran the ball. They were almost immediately stopped by us.
“Fuck yes!” I yelled, heart in my throat.
It was a defensive battle in the first half—a low-scoring game. We went into the locker room, tied at seven.
It was killing me not to check my phone to see how LA was doing. Houston had been nervous as shit. I’d talked him through an orgasm last night, and even that hadn’t helped. He would blame himself if they lost. That was the way he was and—fuck—I needed to get my goddamned thoughts off him.
“We’re better than this. We’re better than them,” Coach Baker said. “McRae, you’re too fucking good, too fast to be held to such low yards tonight. They can’t match your speed—you too, Atwood. Thank fuck for Ward getting into the end zone, or we would have been walking into this locker room down.”
He was right. We all knew he was. We could put points on the board, and we needed to fucking do it.
Coach Baker bitched us out, followed by Ramsey doing the same, before he ended with, “We’re the Denver Rush. We play as a team, and we win as a team. Everyone in this locker room has a role. Play it. We got this. We’re going to go out there and win this motherfucking football game!”
Renewed energy pumped through my veins, ignited in my blood, setting fire to it. He was right. We could do this. We would do this. I’d wanted a ring my whole damned life but never as much as I did right now, with this team, where for the first time since playing with Houston in college, I felt like I fit.
We cheered, thumping the benches and stomping in unison, creating a loud beat together. When we took the field in the third, we were a perfectly oiled machine. Our first time on offense, Garrett scored on a thirty-yard pass from Ramsey, zigzagging his way through Tennessee and diving into the end zone.
“Fuck yes!” I shouted as Garrett and I jumped into the air, bumping chests before landing again. We got the extra point, making it fourteen to seven.
Unfortunately, Tennessee ended the quarter with a short drive, on a third down, barreling their way through our defense for the touchdown.
“Motherfucker!” I groaned, hoping like hell they missed the extra point and cursing again when they didn’t.
My body ached, muscles fighting off exhaustion that I didn’t allow myself to feel right now. I’d suffer through it tomorrow, but tonight, all I cared about was this game.
It was a brutal battle that came down to the wire. We were on offense, in our huddle with three minutes to go, when Ramsey called a play, gaze holding mine. “You got this, Atwood. Show us what I already know you can do out there.”
Adrenaline shot through me, sparking pulses of electricity to snap and crackle in my veins.
“White eighty! White eighty!” Ramsey called the cadence before Tucker snapped him the ball. I shot through the defensive line, feeling like I had a boost of nitro launching me. I spun around two of their players, faked right, went left, and turned just in time to see the ball flying toward me.
I jumped, snatching it from the air and pulling it to my chest before I took off. A player fell in front of me, and I jumped over him, still running. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body, but then I was, too. No one and nothing was on that field except me and the end zone, and there was no fucking way I wasn’t getting there.