He was throwing well. He knew he was throwing well.
First play, Piper threw to a backup tight end that he didn’t even hand-signal, and the tight end found the spot in the zone and turned around exactly when Piper was looking for him for twenty-yards.
Twelve plays. The drive moved with the rain instead of against it.
Third and three at the Seattle thirty-one.
Piper looked at the defense and saw the corner, and he checked at the line to a slot fade. The ball went up high and far, and the rain caught it at the top of its arc and slowed it just enough that the corner slipped, and found Tank. The ball came down into Tank’s outstretched fingertips and bounced once, and was on the wet grass.
Incomplete. The kicker came on for a field goal try.
He hit forty-eight yards in the rain through the uprights.
Score: L.A. 17, Seattle 14. Five-thirty-one left.
Tank was waiting for him on the sideline.
“That was big.”
“That was the rain,” Piper laughed.
“That was you.”
“Whatever it was, it was three points.”
Noah was walking back out, sheets of rain pounding against his body.
Seattle at its own twenty. Five minutes thirty remaining in the fourth.
First play, running back hand off for seven yards, ended with the ball slipping from his hands.
Second play, incomplete pass.
Third play, incomplete pass.
Fourth down.
It came at the line of scrimmage in a way Piper recognized. He turned to Tank, “Fuck, he is going to hard count.”
The tight end was leaning forward. Noah’s voice came through the rain in fragments.
Set.
Hut.
Hut.
L.A.’s defensive end twitched. One foot forward. Half a shoulder.
“Fuck,” he yelled as the camera zoomed in on his face.
The flag was in the air before the ball was snapped. Offsides. Five yards. Automatic first down.
Joan, that should have been a fucking three and out. I should be out on field winning this fucking game! Piper yelled at his inner self.
Tank exhaled next to Piper.
“In this rain,” Tank said. “He fucking hard-counted in this rain.”
