With every drive, we keep pushing, and even through short gains, we’re always moving forward. By the time we hit the red zone, the crowd is losing their minds. Never have we gotten this close so quickly this season.
On our next play, I spot Dax near the corner and pull my arm back to throw, but I never get the chance.
Thwack!
The hit comes so hard that I barely have time to register it as I hit the turf and lose the ball.
“Fuck,” I yell, feeling pain shoot up my wrist.
The stadium is silent, and I know everyone is watching me. If I make a big deal out of this screaming pain, I’m off.
Not fucking happening today.
Before anyone can make a big deal out of it, I push myself back up, flex my hand once, and call the next play.
Just like that, no one questions me.
The pocket holds just long enough for me to get the throw off, and Dax catches it just short of the goal line before getting dragged down.
I keep the next snap myself and push straight into the pile behind my line. Bodies slam into me from every direction, but the second there’s an opening, I close my eyes and force myself through it.
When my body lands on the ground, the whistle blows.
The roar that follows rattles through my chest as my teammates swarm me, yelling over each other while helmets slam against mine.
Touchdown.
My teammates grab me before I can register what happened, and they pull me up to stand, slapping my helmet in celebration.
We did that.
Not Coach Masters.
Us.
By the time I get back to the bench, my wrist is throbbing hard enough to make my fingers ache. I flatten my hand against my thigh for a second before pulling my helmet back on.
Dax drops beside me, unusually quiet, as he looks back out at the field.
Maybe he noticed, or maybe he’s choosing not to say anything.
Either way, there are still three quarters left, so I ignore the pain and keep working.
“Come on, Zach,” his dad whispers at my side, and I’m right there with him.
We’re all so close to the glass that our noses are practically against it. I hold my breath, swallowing down the nervousness clutching at my throat.
We’re up 17-14 in the last eight minutes of the final quarter, but the game has been tight, and there’s more than enough time for the Night Owls to come back and win this.
“Go Uncle Zach!” Ella screams while waving a foam finger almost bigger than she is.
I smile as I watch her, surprised at how calm I feel in a stadiumsetting like this.
The last time I was at one of Zach’s games, it turned into my worst nightmare. Everything was falling apart around me. I was already in a fragile state after hearing my father say shitty things about me, and finding out the only friend in college had betrayed me. It was only made worse when the crowd booed me for just being there.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve explained to Zach how I was feeling and why I couldn’t support him the way I wanted to. Instead, I ran away from all my problems, thinking they would go away.
I’m different now.
