Even so, the ever-increasing volume took my breath away, the crescendo of noise from the fans almost intolerable.

I concentrated on my game plays, anything to block out the deafening roar. My teammates began walking forward, checking out a new commotion in the crowd, but like a pu**y, I hung back—I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t wait for the damn referee’s whistle to blow.

Someone suddenly jumped on me—Austin.

“Rome, look!” He pointed toward the Jumbotron. When I looked up, my heart exploded in my chest like a friggin’ grenade.

Molly?

I whipped my head to the direction of the stands, scanning for a familiar face, and our gazes locked.

Fuck me. She looked stunning: brown hair long and loose, white dress… so goddamn beautiful.

Deep emotion surged through my body, but all I could think of as I walked as if on air toward her was she came—she actually friggin’ came back for me.

The closer I got, the more my throat dried and my chest tightened. Her golden eyes widened with nerves.

I let go of my helmet, no longer needing it to stay centered… calm.

As I glided to a halt before my girl, I looked up and watched her take a deep breath, the stadium around us uncharacteristically still and quiet.

“Hey, Mol,” I said in a rough voice.

“Hey, you,” she whispered back. Then I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring that familiar accent once more.

“You going to give up that sweet kiss?”

“If that’s what you want.”

The heavy burden I’d been carrying around for weeks lifted, and I answered, “It most definitely f**kin’ is.”

Reaching forward, I lifted Mol over the barrier and wrapped her into my arms, crashing against her lips with my own, tasting the sweet vanilla taste that was so uniquely her.

My girl took everything I gave, her desperation matching mine as we let our crazed need for each other take over.

Needing a breath, I broke away and asked, “Are you really here?” running my hands over as much of her as I could.

Cupping my face, tears in her eyes, she cried, “Baby, I’m so sorry I left. I couldn’t cope, but… I love you. I love you so, so much. Please forgive me. Please…”

She loved me. She f**king loved me, and the relief those words conjured had me literally dropping to the floor, still clutching Molly in my hold.

I was never letting her go again.

“Are you back for me? For good?”

Her warm breath breezed down my neck. “For the first time ever, baby, I ran back to something, to you… my Romeo.”

I was hers; she had no idea how much.

“You won’t ever run again. You get that now?” I said firmly, searching her eyes for any doubt. There was none.

“I get it.”

“You left me alone for weeks, no word, no explanation. Do you know how mad I am at you for that?”

“I know.” The sadness and regret in her soft voice almost cut me like a knife. But I had my answer. She was with me now for good.

Pressing my forehead to hers, I stated, “I’m going to win this game. Then I’m going to f**kin’ brand you, once and for all. It seems I’ve been too lenient with you, Shakespeare.” I pushed. “Maybe you didn’t quite get that you’re mine and as such can never, ever leave me—even if your heart is broken. Because if you’re hurting, baby, you can bet I’m f**kin’ hurting too.”

My muscles felt invigorated and I stood, hoisting Molly back to her seat, ordering, “You, back in those stands. Now. I’ve got a championship title to take back home. Then I’ll deal with you. Quite frankly, I don’t know which one I’m more excited for.”

Flushing beet red and throwing me a huge smile, she said, “Give them hell, baby,” then planted another lucky sweet kiss full on my lips, the Bama fans roaring in reaction.

We played out of our skins, but Notre Dame was never too far behind us, never too far in front.

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.