Page 64 of When the Sky Falls

Logan “Lo” Hayes rips off the edge and steamrolls their right tackle, hitting the quarterback so hard the crowd lets out a collective OHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“YES,” I yell, jumping to my feet as the ball pops loose. Vince Baptiste nearly snatches it, but it’s ruled a dead ball before he can recover. Still, it’s a sack for a huge loss.

That buys us air. A breath. A crack in the armor.

On third down, Damien Chase and Kai Okoye double up on coverage and force an incomplete pass in the end zone. It’s a clean stop.

Dallas settles for the field goal.

20–20. Tie game. Five minutes left.

The box is dead silent. Even the WAGs have stopped talking.

And then it happens.

Kickoff.

J.J. Ross fields it clean and takes off like he’s shot out of a cannon. He spins, cuts, hurdles a defender—some freak of nature kind of run that makes me scream until I’m dizzy. He makes it to the thirty-five before he’s brought down.

“He’s on fire tonight,” Layla whispers beside me, and all I can do is nod.

Because now Kingston’s back on the field.

Helmet on. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared like he’s carrying the fate of the damn universe. The huddle breaks, and it’s go time.

First down.

Snap to Kingston. He fakes the handoff to J.J. and rifles a pass to Emmett Clark, who bulldozes forward for seven yards.

Second down.

He goes to Cruz Delgado this time—sideline throw, perfectly placed. First down. Clock still ticking.

The boys are moving like clockwork—Tank and Brody are holding the edges like stone walls, Riley and Elidriving the push from the middle. It’s like poetry made out of violence.

Then Malik breaks coverage.

It’s a slant route, and it’s so damn clean I swear I see Kingston’s grin even from up here.

He throws it.

Malik catches it.

Touchdown.

27–20. Two minutes left.

The suite explodes in noise—cheering, clapping, someone actually crying. Maybe it’s Olivia. Maybe it’s me.

I grip my belly as one of the babies kicks, like even they know something epic just happened.

But the game’s not over.

Dallas isn’t done.

They come out swinging—long throws, aggressive routes. They push past midfield, time bleeding off the clock.

“Defense, come on,” I plead, heart in my throat.