Chapter 174

Chapter 174
Sienna's POV

The seconds stretched into eternity. Hayes rolled onto his side, then slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. The crowd held its collective breath as he tested his knee, flexing it carefully. When he finally stood up with help from his teammates, waving off the medical staff, the relief was so intense I nearly collapsed.

But I could see the way he was favoring his right leg as he walked to the sideline. The slight limp that he thought he was hiding. The way he immediately sat down on the bench and let the trainers examine his knee.

"He's okay, he's walking," Ophelia kept repeating, but her voice was tight with worry too.

I watched as the medical staff wrapped his knee in additional support, as Hayes argued with them about going back into the game. Even from the stands, I could see the determination in his body language, the way he shook his head when they suggested he sit out the rest of the game.

"Please don't let him go back out there," I whispered, so quietly that only I could hear it. "Please."

But Hayes was already strapping his helmet back on, already jogging back onto the field as the fourth quarter began. The crowd roared its approval, but all I could see was the slight catch in his stride, the way he was protecting that right leg.

The third quarter ended with Steel Citadel still leading 21-7, and Hayes still playing through what I knew had to be significant pain.

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The fourth quarter began with Hayes taking the field like a man possessed. Whatever the trainers had done to his knee during the break, whatever painkillers they'd given him, whatever internal fire was driving him—it was all focused into fifteen minutes of pure determination.

"This is it," I heard him shout to his teammates in the huddle, his voice carrying over the crowd noise. "Fifteen minutes to make history. I need every one of you to give me everything you've got. For this city. For each other. Let's bring it home."

The Saints' offense took the field with a different energy, a different urgency. Hayes was calling plays at the line of scrimmage, changing the snap count, keeping the Steel Citadel defense off balance with a no-huddle attack that didn't give them time to substitute or adjust.

The first drive was a masterpiece of precision and timing. Hayes completed five straight passes, each one perfectly placed, each one moving the chains and eating up yardage. When they reached the twenty-five-yard line, he suddenly went deep, launching a perfect spiral toward Tyler in the corner of the end zone.

The ball seemed to hang in the air forever before settling into Tyler's hands like it belonged there. Touchdown. 21-14.

I was screaming and crying and laughing all at once, Ava and Payton pulling me into another group hug as the stadium erupted around us.

The Saints' defense stepped up on the next series, forcing a three-and-out that gave Hayes the ball back with eight minutes left on the clock. Eight minutes to either complete one of the greatest comebacks in Super Bowl history or watch his championship dreams die on the field.

I couldn't sit down. My hands were pressed against the glass, my eyes locked on Hayes as he took the field. Every play felt like it lasted an hour. Every completion brought us closer to hope. Every incomplete pass threatened to crush it.

With four minutes left, Hayes found himself facing third and goal from the three-yard line. The same situation that had started the Saints' comeback in the second quarter, but now the stakes were infinitely higher. Steel Citadel's defense knew what was coming—they'd seen Hayes run the quarterback sneak before.

But sometimes, the best play is the obvious play executed perfectly.

Hayes took the snap and immediately lowered his shoulder, driving forward with everything he had. Two Steel Citadel linebackers met him at the line of scrimmage, but Hayes's legs—those legs that had been rebuilt through months of agony and determination, supported by boots that had been crafted with obsessive precision—found one more gear.

He crossed the goal line standing up.

21-21. Tie game.

The stadium exploded. I was sobbing and screaming and shaking all at once, completely overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment. Payton and Ava were holding me up, because I'm not sure my legs would have supported me otherwise.

"He did it," I kept repeating through my tears. "He did it. He did it."

But there were still four minutes left on the clock. Four minutes for Steel Citadel to answer, to crush the comeback before it could be completed. Four minutes that felt like four hours as I watched their offense take the field, desperate to reclaim their lead.

The Saints' defense, energized by their offense's heroics, rose to meet the challenge. They stuffed Steel Citadel's running game, pressured the opposing quarterback into hurried throws, and finally forced a punt with two minutes and thirty seconds left on the clock.

Hayes jogged onto the field one more time, the ball spotted at the Saints' twenty-yard line. Eighty yards to glory. Two and a half minutes to immortality.

I was standing with my hands pressed together in front of my chest, my lips moving in silent prayer. All of my focus, all of my hope, all of my love was concentrated on the man in the number 12 jersey.

The first play was a fifteen-yard completion to Tyler. The second was a ten-yard strike to the tight end. The third was a twelve-yard bullet to the slot receiver. Hayes was picking apart the Steel Citadel defense with surgical precision, using every second of the clock but never letting the pressure get to him.

With one minute left, the Saints had moved to Steel Citadel's thirty-five-yard line. Hayes called his final timeout, jogging to the sideline to confer with his coaches one last time.

The stadium scoreboard showed the countdown: 1:00... and then it stopped.

I closed my eyes and tried to center myself, tried to find some calm in the chaos of my emotions. When I opened them again, Hayes was walking back onto the field, his teammates gathered around him in the huddle.

This was it. This was the moment that would define everything.

Hayes took the snap and immediately rolled to his right, buying time as his receivers worked to get open downfield. The Steel Citadel pass rush was in full pursuit, but Hayes's footwork—that perfect, precise footwork that had been refined through countless hours of practice in boots designed specifically for his body—kept him just ahead of their grasp.

At the thirty-yard line, he suddenly cut back toward the middle of the field. At the twenty-five, he spun away from a diving linebacker. At the twenty, he found another gear I didn't know he had.

Fifteen yards. Ten yards. Five yards.

A cornerback came flying in from the side, but Hayes saw him coming. One final spin move, one final burst of speed, and he was across the goal line, the ball held high above his head in triumph.

Touchdown. Saints 28, Steel Citadel 21.

The stadium exploded in a way I'd never experienced before. The noise was so loud it was physical, pressing against me like a wave. Confetti cannons erupted from every corner of the stadium, filling the air with gold and black streamers. Fireworks burst overhead, painting the night sky in brilliant colors.

And through it all, I was crying and screaming and shaking, held up by Payton and Ava as we celebrated the most incredible moment of our lives.

On the field, Hayes was buried under a pile of his teammates, but he fought his way free and pulled off his helmet, his eyes searching the stands until they found mine. Even from that distance, even through the chaos and the celebration, I could feel the connection between us.

He pointed to his heart, then pointed directly at me.

"I love you!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, not caring who heard me. "I love you!"

There were still forty-five seconds left on the clock. Steel Citadel would get one final chance to tie the game, to send it to overtime. But as I watched the Saints' defense take the field with fire in their eyes, I knew it was over.

Three plays later, when the Steel Citadel quarterback's desperation pass was intercepted by the Saints' safety, the celebration began in earnest. The final gun sounded, and Hayes Sterling—my Hayes—was a Super Bowl champion.