Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“You’re late to the party,” Bellamy teases.
Her eyes find mine, and I mouth, “Thank you,” which she acknowledges with a smile and a nod.
“No shit?” Knox asks.
“Coach’s got game!” Landry says.
“Congratulations,” Foster says, smiling.
The girls all come over and hug us, and everyone asks questions about how long, when, and so many more. We answer every one of them, and with each answered question, the worry and the fear slip away.
Sometimes the scary stuff is hard, but the relief of facing it head-on is indescribable.
“Just think how they would act if they knew we were having another baby,” Will whispers in my ear.
My heart melts. Another baby. He claims Mia as his so freely. Just when I thought I couldn’t fall in love with him any more than I already am, he proves me wrong.
Epilogue Will
Will
* * *
Confetti falls in a blizzard of black and gold, sticking to sweaty jerseys and getting stomped into the turf. The stadium is chaos in the best possible way. People are everywhere, laughing, crying, and cheering until their voices crack. Teammates crash into each other in clumsy hugs, helmets and mouth guards tossed aside, arms wrapped tightly like they never want to let go of the moment. Cameras flash from every direction, catching wide smiles, tear-streaked faces, players dropping to their knees just to take it all in.
Fans are still roaring in the stands, some of them climbing over rows to hug strangers. The scoreboard still glows overhead, the final numbers frozen in time, proof that it’s real. Someone blasts the victory song through the speakers, but it’s almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd and the team piling together in the center of the field.
In the middle of it all, the championship trophy is raised high, gleaming under the lights. Hands reach for it from every direction, hands that have bled for this season, trained through injuries, fought through losses that felt like the end of the world at the time. Now those same hands shake with adrenaline and disbelief.
Someone sprays champagne. It arcs through the air and rains down over everyone nearby, and nobody even tries to dodge it. Jerseys cling, hair is soaked, and the smell of champagne mixes with sweat and the sharp scent of the stadium’s smoke machines.
The Nashville Rampage is bringing home another league championship.
In the middle of the storm of bodies and noise, someone grabs my shoulders, shaking me like they’re trying to prove I’m real. My chest is heaving, lungs burning from the last minutes of the game, heart still pounding like the buzzer just sounded.
The fans are losing their minds, jumping, shouting, waving to no one, to everyone, all at once. They’re chanting our name now, the rhythm echoing off the walls. The Rampage fans are loyal and always show up for us. The number of people who drove to New York for this game is astonishing, the support humbling.
Rampage.
Rampage.
Rampage.
Their chants echo, and I’m sure they can be heard throughout the entire city of New York. I look around at all of it, the confetti drifting down like glittery snow, the trophy flashing under the lights, my players screaming like they just won a life-changing lottery.
And it finally hits me.
We actually did it. I laugh, half hysterical, half exhausted, grabbing the nearest teammate and pulling them into a crushing hug.
“We fucking did it,” Reid cheers as he hops onto my back.
Knox, Landry, Baker, and Foster join him, and we’re suddenly in a group hug. I’m a coach, I don’t play favorites, but the last several months, these men have become more than my players. They’re family. Sure, I think of all of my players as family, that’s part of what makes this franchise a success, but this group, it’s different. They’re more.
The celebration rages on, and while I’m proud of my team, it’s my wife I can’t wait to celebrate with. Amanda and I got married in a small ceremony in our backyard in early October. It was the perfect day, with just those closest to us in attendance. Her parents refused to come, and that’s okay. It’s their loss.
The cleaning crew comes out to clear the field and starts to clean up after the ceremony. I round up the players, and we head to the locker room. Once everyone is there, I raise my hand and the room goes quiet.
“You played one hell of a season,” I tell them. “You gave me your all every practice, every game, and this”—I point to the trophy—“is proof of that hard work. Thank you for another incredible season. Now, go find your families and celebrate.”
The room erupts, and I stalk off toward the room I’m using as an office to pack up my things. Tossing the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I walk out to see that a good portion of the guys are either showering or heading out to shower at the hotel.