Their defense isn’t the greatest, but their offense is right in line with ours. Our defense is okay, and our linebackers are excellent—praise Nick Cleary—but the Central quarterback is a senior who’s seen it all on some really bad teams. He knows how to move, get rid of the ball, and fight.
Me, well… every inch of my being is exhausted from nearly four full quarters of football and at least twenty full-speed hits. Andthatis compounded by the fact that despite it’s completely clear I’ve done my duty—282 yards and five touchdowns—we’re tied.
Tied.
With a minute left. And Central has the freaking ball in the red zone.
They’re killing time—the team’s kicker warming upwith a Rockettes special on the sideline. One field goal and it’ll be on us with seconds remaining to tie or win on a touchdown.
I’m on the bench, muscles tightening, waiting for my turn, because even with my exhaustion, my heart bursts to be out on that field, to go haul that win in. Next to me, Grey’s so dialed in he can’t crawl out, all the usual comfort sloughed from his skin. Where I am so tense I’m frozen in place, his legs bounce like Ryan’s after one of Heather’s colossal Sunday evening desserts. His mouth won’t stop moving either—the coaching genes in his DNA whirring his brain up to eighty-eight miles per hour.
“Better go short and safe and hope Tate breaks free for a run than go long and miss an opportunity.” His shoulder pad clicks against mine. “Not that you can’t go long. It’s the Central secondary I don’t trust—scrappy and experienced. They’ve been holding up our receivers all game.”
“Mmm-hmmm” is all I have energy to say.
The ball is up, up, up and then… not.
Batted down by a fingertip and rolling downfield.
The clock is still running and the second it’s called as a Tiger ball—Thank you, Sanchez—Coach Lee is screaming for the offense to get out there. Shanks’s call: Orange Sixteen.
I sprint to where the ball was downed—the twenty-two—make eye contact with Tate, and scream out the details. We haven’t missed this one all game.
“ORANGE SIXTEEN. ORANGE SIXTEEN. HUT-HUT!”
Ball ready, I shoot back, eyes hunting for Tate’s number eighty-two.
After a second, I spy it, but not anywhere close to on route—sandwiched between two red jerseys just beyond the line.
Shit. We haven’t missed it all game, but that doesn’t mean Central hasn’t figured out a solution.
I dodge right, searching for any open receiver—pesky defense indeed. The closest thing to open is number eighty-four—Timmy Chow—out wide right, beating two defenders in his route downfield.
Holding my breath, I aim, hoping Chow actually thinks about looking for an incoming ball, even though he knows the play isn’t designed for him.
The ball rockets out and over the fray. Chow’s helmet pops up and back, his arms reach, and he leaps.
But so do the defenders—earning extra time in the half step Chow slowed to turn.
The ball crashes into Chow’s chest, right between the eight and four. But the ball squirts out, skipping up end over end.
Catch it, catch it, catch it.
The ball hangs for an eternity as three pairs of gloved hands scrape fingertips against the leather. One leaping defender gets to it first, batting the point.
I release a breath as the ball makes contact with the turf, interception avoided.
Ten seconds left.
The coaches are all yelling at once for everyone to return to the line—the Northland players moving two times the speed of Central. In the mess, Shanks calls for White Twenty-Two.
Seven. Six. Five. Four.
Everyone settles into place.
“WHITE TWENTY-TWO. WHITE TWENTY-TWO. HUT-HUT!”
Three. Two. One.
