Game day.
The 49ers locker room buzzed with tension. Reporters lined the tunnel, cameras clicked like clockwork, and the scent of sweat and adrenaline filled the air.
Brandon pulled his jersey over his pads, tightening his gloves with a slow breath.
Coach Daniels clapped him on the shoulder. "This is it. Division on the line. Keep your head clear and your heart grounded."
Brandon nodded. "Yes, sir."
But even as he suited up, he couldn't ignore the whispers swirling through the stadium—not from the media this time, but from the opposing team. The Dallas defense had been making cheap comments all week, bringing Genevieve into their trash talk.
"She's just a distraction."
"He's too soft now—love-struck."
"He'll fold under pressure."
Brandon clenched his fists, jaw tight. They could talk about his game. His stats. Even his injuries. But dragging Genevieve into it?
That was crossing a line.
Back in her VIP suite, Genevieve paced. She wore Brandon's jersey over a white turtleneck, scriptures in her lap, and her heart in her throat.
She could feel the tension—see it in the reporters, hear it in the way people whispered. But she wasn't afraid.
She was ready to fight the only way she knew how.
With prayer.
She bowed her head, closed her eyes, and whispered, "Father, help him rise. Help him stay strong. Use him as a light on the field, even in the heat of the battle."
As the teams stormed the field below, Genevieve stood and pressed her hand against the glass.
"I believe in you, Baby."
The first quarter hit like a storm.
Dallas came out swinging—blitzes, sacks, interceptions. Brandon struggled to find his rhythm. By halftime, the score was 21–3. The locker room was silent.
Brandon sat on the bench, staring at the ground, helmet beside him. The doubt crept in.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe he was off.
Maybe love made him weaker.
Until his phone buzzed.
He picked it up.
A single text from Genevieve:
Genevieve: You were born for this. Let your faith call the plays. Show them what real strength looks like—God's strength. I love you, QB.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed deep.
And something shifted.
He wasn't just playing for stats.
He wasn't just playing for pride.
He was playing for purpose.
The second half?
A miracle in motion.
Brandon came out blazing—launching perfect passes, calling audibles with calm precision, running the ball like the field belonged to him. The crowd roared louder with every down.
Touchdown after touchdown.
Redemption in real time.
With three minutes left on the clock and the game tied, the 49ers faced fourth and goal.
Coach Daniels looked at Brandon. "You want it?"
Brandon nodded. "Yes, sir. Let's finish this."
He stepped into the huddle, looked at his teammates—men who had become brothers—and called the play.
They lined up. The stadium held its breath.
The snap came. Brandon rolled right, pump-faked, then saw his receiver cutting toward the back of the endzone.
He threw.
A spiral through time and space.
Touchdown.
San Francisco erupted.
The 49ers won.
And Brandon? He dropped to one knee and pointed to the sky.
"All glory to God."
After the game, Genevieve raced down the tunnel. The moment she saw him, sweaty and breathless, she ran into his arms.
"You did it," she whispered against his chest.
"No," Brandon whispered back, pulling her close. "We did."
That night, they sat on his couch, the game replaying on mute, scripture journals open between them.
"Know what verse kept playing in my heart today?" Brandon asked.
Genevieve smiled. "Tell me."
"Ether 12:27. And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness… But then God gives strength."
Genevieve leaned into him, her hand resting over his heart. "You showed them what strength really looks like today."
Brandon kissed her forehead.
"And I'm just getting started."