Chapter X: Flames of Fame
The Washington Huskies had once again shocked the nation, and not just by chance — they made a statement, bold and brutal. It wasn’t some Cinderella story or lucky bounce of the ball. Nah, this was dominance with a vengeance. For the third time this season, they came in as underdogs against a heavily favored, ranked team. This time, it was the #1 ranked Penn State Nittany Lions standing in their path like they was invincible. Penn State had sent shockwaves across the country with their dominant stretch, reeling off six consecutive wins after a close loss to Wisconsin. Their offense was dynamic, clicking like a well-oiled machine, and their defense was a wall — cold, suffocating, unforgiving.
But all that hype got left in the dirt when Washington touched down in Beaver Stadium and handed them an unexpected L.
Final score: 36-24. As close as it doesn't look on the scoreboard, the game was tight as hell.
Beaver Stadium was a concrete monster, swallowing sound and spitting it back out like a war cry. 100,000 strong screaming against you, throwing you into chaos. But Dale Denton? He ain't blink. Not once. Dude operated like he had ice in his veins and fire in his belly. He understood that the key to the long game was in short passes — clean, quick, and calculated. He let his receivers rack up yards after catch while he kept the clock bleeding, calling plays that nibbled at the Nittany Lions’ confidence with every tick. Each first down was like a body shot. The run game? Just enough juice to crack open the middle, let 'em know they couldn’t just sit in coverage all day.
It was surgical. It was disrespectful.
Fourth quarter, five minutes left. Huskies up five, but that lead felt thinner than dental floss. Penn State was hungry. Their fans louder than ever, desperate to keep the dream alive. That’s when Dale flipped the switch like a man possessed. Three straight passes — zip, zip, zip — all caught in tight windows, the kind of throws you don’t attempt unless you trust your boys like blood. Audric Harris running his routes like he was born to be in motion, snapping ankles and snatching hope. Ezekial Ragas, the quiet killer in the backfield, grinding out three or four yards a pop, milking the clock like a pro with ice in his heart.
Every yard chipped away at Penn State’s soul.
And then came the dagger — Dale dropped back in the red zone, eyes scanning like a hawk. He pump faked, froze the corner, then let it fly. The pass wobbled after a defender tipped it, like fate wanted a say. But Audric stayed locked in, hands like magnets, snatching it out the air like a hawk on prey. Touchdown. Game over. Silence fell over Beaver Stadium like a funeral march. Only thing you could hear was the Huskies’ sideline going berserk and that faint echo of disbelief from 100,000 broken dreams.
Sunday rolled around and the country was still talking, like the echo of a seismic shift that wouldn’t die down. ESPN. FOX. Bleacher Report. Even barbershops and grandma's kitchen tables had something to say about the upset of the week. Everybody was in disbelief. But while analysts and talking heads picked apart stats, drew up diagrams, and tried to decode what went down like it was some football conspiracy, Dale and the squad were out in the real world, basking in the afterglow. Finn MacCool’s Irish Public House wasn’t just a bar that night — it was the damn capital of college football, ground zero for the biggest statement of the season.
As the squad stepped through the door, they got hit with a wave of applause so loud it felt like a stadium crowd in miniature. The patrons were already halfway to tipsy, chanting, clapping, raising their glasses like the Huskies had just won a championship. For the seniors on the team, this was a home away from home, a sanctuary where beer and brotherhood flowed freely. Dale, too young to legally drink, didn’t care — he was soaking in the energy like a sponge. His eyes scanned the food menu like a coach reading a defense.
"For seniors only! Drinks are on the house tonight!" the bartender hollered, and the whole place erupted again like someone scored a touchdown.
The boys wasted no time. The bar turned into a madhouse — pool balls clacking, shots getting lined up like dominoes, and laughter loud enough to rattle the old wooden beams. Dale, cool as ever, posted up on the wall with a soda in hand, chopping it up with Jacob Lane, their senior SAM linebacker. Jacob was a real one — tough as coffin nails and played like every down might be his last.
"Yo, Dale," Jacob said, voice loose, eyes a little glassy from the Coors Light he was sipping like it was Gatorade. "You’ve done a hell of a job this season. The boys and I? Man, we proud as hell of you. You came in here and earned your spot. Ain’t nobody give you nothin’."
Dale grinned, nodding with respect. "I appreciate that, Jacob, but I ain’t do it alone. Y’all kept me grounded, kept me protected. I just played my part."
"Hell no," Jacob said, taking a bigger swig. "You gotta learn to take your flowers. You ain’t just playin’ your part — you leadin’. And I just wanna say, it’s been a real one runnin’ with you."
"Fa’sho, Jacob," Dale said, dapping him up with a firm chest pat. "I learned the game watching you. Watching Decker. Y’all set the tone. Without that? I’m just some freshman out here tryin’ not to drown."
Jacob chuckled, slapping his leg. "Decker? Man’s head over heels for you, dawg. He ain’t caught this many passes since—shit, maybe never. He runs them routes with extra energy now like you got him drinkin’ rocket fuel."
Dale laughed loud, letting the joy ripple off him. His eyes scanned the room, bouncing off the chaos of beer mugs clinking and old-school tracks pumping through the speakers. That’s when he saw her.
Addy Benefield.
She was standing across the bar like she owned the damn place. Light hit her just right — that bronze skin with a natural shimmer, gold bangles on her wrist catching glints like they were flirting with the lights. Her hair up in a high bun, soft waves escaping like they refused to be tamed. She didn’t just turn heads. She stopped conversations.
Dale clocked her immediately. He knew who she was. He’d done his homework. Junior. Outside hitter on the volleyball team. Six feet of pure athletic smoke. She was bad in all the right ways, and she moved like she knew it.
Their eyes met. Addy gave him a smile — subtle, warm, but charged. Dale felt it like a jolt in his chest. It wasn’t a game. It was a connection.
"Jacob, don’t nurse that bottle too long. I’ll be back," Dale said, already sliding into motion.
He moved through the crowd like water, smooth and collected, tossing up nods, handshakes, and photo poses like a seasoned politician. The hometown hero look sat well on him. When he reached Addy’s side of the bar, her friends instinctively stepped aside — like they could feel something about to happen.
"Good evening," Dale said, voice even, eyes steady.
"Hello to you," she replied, her tone playful but edged with curiosity.
"Hope I’m not interrupting. Just happened to see you from across the bar. Your brown eyes? That bronze skin? Kinda hard to miss."
She gave a sly grin. "Oh really? That’s all it took for you to come over here?"
"Not quite," Dale said. "But when you smiled? I had to come say something."
"So it was the smile that got you?"
"Could’ve been. But now that I’m up close, maybe it was the eyes. You’ve been locked in since I saw you."
Addy laughed, hand brushing her lips. "I noticed you too. Recognized you. Quarterback, right?"
"That’s me," Dale nodded. "And you? Addy Benefield. Junior. Outside hitter. Six feet of fire. You been killin’ it on the volleyball court."
She rolled her eyes with a smirk. "You really layin’ it on thick, huh Mr. Freshman?"
"Maybe Mr. Heisman if I play my cards right. Or maybe I just know beauty when I see it."
Addy blushed, eyes flicking to her friends who were definitely eavesdropping. Dale gave them a polite wave.
"That your crew?"
"Yeah, that’s them."
"Cool, cool. I’m Dale. Pleasure to meet you."
"Addy. Likewise."
"Funny thing is, me and the boys were just talking about you a while back"
"Oh yeah? All good, I hope. Y'all a fan of mine"
"One of us are, without a doubt. The question is — are you a fan of mine?"
She tilted her head, teasing. "Maybe I am. Gotta support my fellow athletes."
They both laughed. "Aight, I peep your evasive game, touche."
"But yeah, I've seen you play, and me and my girls might've talked about you."
"Oooh, do tell", Dale requested with piqued interest, making Addy blush more in the process. And from there, the conversation clicked. People came by for autographs, selfies, handshakes — but Dale never broke focus. Addy liked that. He could balance it all without making her feel like an afterthought. They talked until her drink was nothing but watery ice. Dale leaned in, voice low and confident.
"Addy, I’m feelin’ you. And I think you’re feelin’ me. I ain’t even gonna ask for your number. I’ma just give you mine. Social media messy. I know your DMs look like a lottery line."
"And yours don’t? Boy, stop," she said, laughing. "I know you got fans."
"Even if I do, I ain’t tryna play that game. I like moments like this. Face to face. No filters."
She grinned. "Alright then. Maybe I’ll hit you up."
"No pressure," Dale said. "But if you down, maybe you can show me what this town’s really about."
"We’ll see," Addy said, eyes twinkling.
Dale slipped his number into her phone, gave her one last smile, then melted back into the crowd like he’d never left. Jacob was damn near sideways, and Decker had an arm around him trying to hold him steady. It wasn't long until the crew had made their way back to campus. The night might've been over, but Dale's mind racing about the appeal and conversation with Addy had just begun.
The final week of the regular season came fast and hit harder than expected. Monday morning smacked like a cold shower with no steam—just straight chill down the spine. It was back to the grind: practice, film, weights, meetings. No distractions. No time to breathe wrong. The air in the locker room was dense with focus, like everyone was holding their breath between reps.
By Friday evening, the nerves were simmering just under the surface. That’s when Addy finally hit Dale’s line. Her number flashed across his screen like a spark in the dark. A few texts, some late laughs, a meme that made him crack a smile. She asked if he was ready. He said, “Always.” But she could tell—he was somewhere else. His mind wasn’t on her, not this weekend. Tunnel vision had kicked in. Oregon was coming. Senior Day. The weight of legacy was heavy on his chest.
Saturday morning showed up like a drill sergeant. The sun was still rubbing sleep from its eyes when the team hit the turf. 5:30 a.m., not a minute late. Cold wind bit at bare skin, but nobody flinched. Grind mode activated. Lock in. The stadium was a sleeping giant, waking slow as the first wave of fans trickled through the gates. By ten, the bleachers hummed with anticipation. By eleven, it was thunder.
Coach Danielson brought the team in tight for one last pregame huddle. No big speech, not this time. He just steel in his eyes and gravel in his voice. “Men, I don’t need to say much. Last eleven weeks, we’ve said it all. We’ve lived the ups. We’ve survived the downs. We know what we do great. We know what we can do better. But the one thing we haven’t talked about? A loss. You know why? 'Cause it don’t live here. It don’t breathe here. And it damn sure don’t walk out that tunnel with us today. So let’s handle business. “DAWGS on three! One, two, three—“DAWGS!!”
The final march of the season at Alaska Airlines Field had arrived, stomping in like an army with something to prove. The grass felt different underfoot. The sky looked sharper. This wasn’t just another game. For Dale, it wasn’t about him. Not this one. This was for the seniors—the ones who stayed, the ones who bled for this team, the ones who built the foundation. He owed them everything. And today, he was about to pay that debt—with every throw, every scramble, every ounce of fire in his chest.
