“I finished with Shelly right away. Anyone who could be involved in something so sick isn’t worth the damn air she breathes.”

“How’s Molly?” Jacob Thomsson, our linebacker, asked.

“She left me. I have no idea how she is.”

The tension in the room intensified as I turned my back to the team and began to change into my training shorts, unable to bear the pity in their faces. They needed to know Molly wouldn’t be around for the pregame kiss to which so many of my teammates and fans attributed my near perfect performance this season. I knew the majority of the guys would shit themselves at that information—going into the championship with a heartbroken QB wouldn’t exactly fill them with confidence.

A tattooed arm hooked around my neck, and Austin whispered, “We’ll get you through this, Rome. I swear to God we will.”

I friggin’ hoped so.

“She’ll come back.”

Smiling grimly, I said, “Ally, Jimmy-Don, Lexi, and Cass all tell me the same. But you guys don’t know the half of it. You didn’t see her face the night she left. She’s gone, man. Gone for good.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. What you fail to realize is that the rest of us saw how she looked at you, despite all the grief. She may be going through shit right now, but she loves you, Rome. She’ll be back.”

Cracking a smile and feeling a tiny bit of happiness for the first time in what felt like an age, I joked, “You going soft on me, Carillo?”

Barking out a laugh, he replied, “Nah, I just envy you, man. Who wouldn’t want a girl sticking with you even when everything goes to shit? She may be gone now, but she won’t be gone forever.”

33

BCS National Championship

Rose Bowl Stadium, Pasadena, California

POD’s “Here Comes The Boom” pumped out of the locker room’s speakers as the team—the University of Alabama’s famous Crimson Tide—prepped for the biggest game of the year. Some guys were shouting in excitement; some were quietly listening to earphones; some were puking in the john; most were simply waiting for the referee’s whistle to start the game.

Ally and Cass were using my game tickets. They had flown out to California, along with thousands of Bama fans, to watch the showdown against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. As a senior, it was my very last game for the Tide. Fuck. It was my last game with a group of guys who were my family. I had to win the ballgame for them. I had to get in the zone and play the game of my life.

Coach entered the room and slowly surveyed the scene. We all fell silent. “Take a knee. Let’s pray.”

We did as he instructed and recited The Lord’s Prayer. Each player then looked to Coach, who instructed, “Stand up. Listen good.”

We all got to our feet and Coach took his place in the center of our player circle. Moving to look each of us in the eye, he stated, “Let’s fight the Irish… all… over… the… field.” Coach emphasized the last four words. My blood rushed in my ears and the energy building between the team was infectious.

“Defense, offense, special teams. Stay alert. Y’all know your assignments.” Coach paused, pointing to his watch. “Sixty minutes, no more, no less. Don’t take this win for me. Take it for each other. Let’s leave it all on the field.”

Bodies shook with adrenaline, players swayed where they stood, anxious to hit the field, and Coach turned cheerleader. “We’re the reigning champions! Do y’all wanna stay champs? Well, do ya?!!!” he asked loudly.

“YEAH!” yelled back the locker room, the enthusiasm through the roof.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Coach yelled, “Not good enough, so I’ll ask y’all again. Do ya wanna stay the champs?!!!”

“YEAH, YEAH, YEAHHHH!!!” chanted the team, the sound of shouting rumbling along the lockers, and players began pounding the doors and walls with their fists, the noise of the crowd outside building and the excitement of the players almost too much to take.

“Then grab your gear, hit the field, and… ROLL TIDE!!!”

Heading for the locker room door, in unison, the team, my team, chanted, “TIDE, TIDE, TIDE!”

As returning BCS champions, we had the honor of running out onto the field first. Rolling my shoulders and jumping on the spot, knees to chest, I gripped onto my helmet guard tightly, trying my damnedest to get psyched up.

I tried real hard not to let my mind drift to Molly. I’d been hoping she’d show after the voicemail I’d left her yesterday. But, as always, there was no reply. I’d made peace with myself that she wasn’t coming back to the US. My plans were firmly in place—to win this f**king championship, then fly to Oxford and sort this shit out once and for all.

The announcement for the Tide came. Just like last year, it was a blur as the team ran onto the field. Austin and Jimmy-Don led the way, pumping up the crowd to a crazy volume.

Taking a sobering breath, I shot out of the tunnel, pyrotechnics going off all around me, keeping my head down as we swarmed onto the field. I robotically sang “The Star Spangled Banner” with all my heart and as “…the home of the brave” died away into the night air, it was time for the rival team captains to meet for the coin toss.

I enjoyed this calm before the storm.

The Fighting Irish captains called it correctly and elected to receive.

Toward the end of the coin toss, the Bama fans rose as one and began to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss…” so damn loud it was deafening. Now back on the sideline, I hung my head in embarrassment and squeezed my eyes tightly, trying to ignore the pain of Molly’s absence. How could they know their good luck charm was across the f**king Atlantic? I cringed, knowing I couldn’t deliver, as tens of thousands of Bama fans demanded the ritual they believed had carried the Tide through an undefeated season.