Page 1 of Platinum Pressure

“Beat ’em down, ’backs! Beat em down, ’backs!”

The crowd chanted in unison as offense walked off the field and defense walked on. We put our blood, sweat, and soul on the gridiron every game, and tonight was no different. The roar of the crowd was music to my ears, as it had been all season long. Thousands of people packed the stadium for me.

For us.

For the Cade’s Cove Silverbacks.

The season boiled down to this moment right here: the NFC championship game. The Cade’s Cove Silverbacks against the Sacramento Sugar Gliders. The winner would take it all and play the Pleasant City Pioneers in the Super Bowl. Unlike the Pioneers, we had to get this shit out of the mud. They stacked the NFC with some of the toughest teams in the league. We fought tooth and nail to defend our title every game.

Before the Silverbacks drafted me, they were a bottom of the barrel team. In just six years, I’d turned the team around and gotten us a Super Bowl win. Tonight, we would be one step closer to defend our title and continue our journey as back-to-back champions.

The pressure of the world was on my shoulders, but I would never fold. I always came out on top, and tonight would be no different. I leaned forward onto the line of scrimmage and got into my defensive position. I bit down on my mouth guard as I listened intently to the surrounding people.

What many people didn’t realize was sometimes the heart of the team was the defense. Yeah, the offense scored the points, but it was the defense who held the opponents back from scoring. It was the defense who set the tone of the game. A strong defense won games.

As a defensive tackle, my position was often overlooked and forgotten, but I was a tank on the field. I was six feet and six inches in height and weighed over 380 pounds. From my draft day to now, I had record-breaking statistics. Some of my noteworthy accolades included the most sacks by a defensive tackle in the league, the most solo tackles by a defensive tackle in the league, and the most forced fumbles in NFC history. They did not nickname me Platinum for the hell of it. I was an anomaly on that field—and nobody was seeing me, number 75. I may have been a conceited player, but I had the talent to back up my confidence. The Silverbacks wouldn’t be paying me nine figures per contract if I wasn’t.

Tyrese Cauldwell, the Sugar Gliders’ quarterback, got into position. The full offensive line followed suit. I shifted directly in front of the offensive guard.

We were in the fourth quarter. The two-minute warning had just gone off, signaling the most crucial time of the game. Anything and everything was possible in the last two minutes of a game. Sometimes, two minutes could drag on for over an hour if the conditions were right.

“Green seven. Green seven. Hike!”

At the sound of Tyrese’s call, I lunged forward to stop the offensive line from advancing. I held on to the guard and pushed them back, causing the quarterback to do an incomplete pass.

“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about, Platinum!” Edison “Eddie” Haywood, my partner in crime on the field, dapped me up after the play. The Silverbacks drafted Eddie and me a year apart, and the two of us quickly became real brothers.

“These niggas not getting through us.” I slapped his shoulder and got back into position.

Second down and another incomplete pass.

On third down, they went with a different play. Cauldwell threw the ball to one of his wide receivers. The bastard gained fifteen yards on the play.

“Man, fuck!” Eddie exclaimed.

“Don’t even trip on that shit. We gon’ stop these niggas right fuckin’ now. They ain’t getting to the goal.” I shouted at my team.

I was the voice.

I was the heart.

I was the leader.

I was the soul.

My energy influenced how we all played on and off the field. When I had faith in my team, they played like a hero in the final boss fight. We were impenetrable.

“You not stoppin’ shit, fuck nigga,” one of the offensive guards commented as we got back on the line of scrimmage.

I eyed the dude while I chuckled boisterously. “Nigga, you wouldn’t even buss a grape. Fuck outta here.”

Time ticked away. Forty-five seconds left on the clock. The score was Sugar Gliders 14 and Silverbacks 21. We were only up by one possession. If we tied the game, it would force us into overtime and give the Gliders a chance to win.

Not on my watch.

“Lock in.” My voice was even. My vision was laser focused. All I could think about was the clicking clock and making sure these niggas didn’t get another advancement to the goal.

Thirty seconds left.