“ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE!”
I curl in behind Topps. “HUT-HUT!”
I launch back five steps, spot Tate slightly off route and readjust, aiming to split his numbers. Some asshole in gold is tailing him, but I know Zach Tate’s got this and I release the ball as planned.
Tate catches it and tucks the ball into his elbow as his cleats make contact with the turf, legs churning as he dodges left. The Jewell player goes down in his dust. A linebacker rushes over to help, tripping up Tate at the knees. But he’s made it to the Jewell forty-one—a nineteen-yard gain and a first down.
We step up to the line, the seconds ticking toward a half minute remaining. No huddle, just my voice and our collective muscle memory.
“WHITE NINE! WHITE NINE! HUT-HUT!”
The handoff to Jake isn’t the smoothest, both of us eager to do our jobs, the ball bobbling in his fingertips. Buthe’s Jake effing Rogers and he’s done this a million times. The ball is safe and sound in a fraction of a second and then number thirty-two is on the move.
Jake loops out along the sideline and, as the second defender closes in, he smartly steps out of bounds—stopping the clock.
Nineteen seconds and twenty-five yards remain.
I look to Shanks, not missing our kicker warming up on the sidelines, ready for the winning field goal. I half expect the coaches to call in special teams right now, but they decide to give it one more try for a better position.
White Fifteen. It’s a play he hasn’t called all night. Jewell definitely won’t know what hit them.
I glance at Jake and he nods.Ready.
Again, we rush the line, the Jewell defense clearly unsettled with our lack of huddle. Gotta use that to our advantage one last time.
“WHITE FIFTEEN! WHITE FIFTEEN! HUT-HUT!”
I take the ball and shoot back, Topps holding the pocket.
But Jake’s run into trouble—number fifty-five glued to his back.
Dammit.
Still, in front of me, there’s an opening. Ahugeopening.
For a split second, I consider dumping the ball to the sideline like I should to stop the clock again, but I know what’s best, what will end the game at this very moment.Coach is right, my instinctscanwin this game—even if they don’t involve my throwing arm.
Tucking the ball, I plow through the parted bodies and into the open. I’m certain Grey’s voice rises above the crowd, the clash of bodies, my breath thundering in my ears.
“Run, O-Rod!”
My feet automatically coast left when I realize there’s a body at my side, but it’s Topps, who somehow shook his assignment and sprinted fast enough to block for me.
The end zone looms ahead, the goalposts the whole of my vision. I can’t feel my knee—I can’t feel anything except the tight thrill of tunnel vision, single-mindedness the whole of my being.
Another body zooms into my periphery—another flash of orange.
“Liv! Go!”
Jake.
Now I’ve got guys on either side, protecting me. And Grey in my head, telling me I’ve got this.
Five yards.
Four yards.
Three.
