The confetti fell for the other team.
Drake Maye stood near midfield, helmet tucked under his arm, watching red and gold paper rain down like a cruel joke. The stadium roared—not for him, not for New England—but for the champions he had failed to stop. The Lombardi Trophy gleamed under the lights, impossibly bright, impossibly close. Close enough that he could see his own reflection warped along its curved surface.
Thirty-five years old. Seventeen seasons.Zero Super Bowl wins.
His body ached in places he didn't remember hurting when he was young. His throwing shoulder throbbed, dull and familiar, like an old friend that only showed up to remind him what had been lost. Drake barely heard the announcer declaring the final score. He already knew it. He'd known it the moment the last pass left his hand—just a half-second late, just a foot too far inside.
Incomplete.
Again.
Around him, teammates sat or knelt in silence. Some stared into space. Some buried their faces in towels. Drake didn't cry. He hadn't cried after the first Super Bowl loss either. Or the second. Or the conference championship losses that came before and after. Somewhere along the way, tears had turned into something heavier—something hollow.
He thought about New England. About the city that had embraced him as a kid with impossible expectations. About the banners hanging in the rafters from an era that wasn't his. About how every year, every offseason, every press conference ended with the same question phrased a hundred different ways.
When will you win one?
Drake had come close. Painfully close. He'd rewritten franchise records, stacked Pro Bowls, broken passing marks that once felt untouchable. He'd been steady. Reliable. Great.
But never legendary.
Not here. Not like they wanted.
He imagined the headlines already forming. A Great Career, But… The word but followed him like a shadow. But no rings. But couldn't finish. But not enough. He wondered if fans would remember the wins, the comebacks, the years he carried broken rosters farther than anyone expected—or if all of it would be reduced to the absence of one piece of metal.
One trophy he never held.
As the celebration drifted farther away, Drake closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think it.
If I had just one more chance…
The thought felt dangerous. Childish. Regret masquerading as hope. But it refused to leave. He replayed moments in his head—reads he misjudged, throws he forced, seasons where patience might have changed everything. Experience had come too late. Wisdom had arrived after the damage was done.
When he opened his eyes again, the stadium lights were gone.
So was the noise.
So was the pain.
Drake blinked. Once. Twice.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—plain, low, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars. His body felt wrong. Light. Too light. He sat up too quickly and froze, staring down at his hands.
They were smaller.
Unscarred. Unworn.
A voice called from down the hall. "Drake! You're going to be late for school!"
School?
His heart slammed against his chest as memories collided—playbooks, press conferences, playoff losses crashing into the smell of laundry detergent and the hum of a quiet house. He swung his legs off the bed and nearly laughed in disbelief when his feet touched the floor.
Middle school sneakers.
A mirror hung on the closet door. Drake stepped toward it slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast, this would all disappear. The boy staring back at him had the same eyes—but none of the weight behind them.
Drake Maye stared at his reflection, breath shaking.
The Super Bowl. The losses. The regrets.
All still there.
But so was something else.
Time.
And this time, he wasn't going to waste it.