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Until the second defender hit me from the side, punching it out.
I turned my head, and time slowed down.
The ball tumbled up into the air like gravity was merely a suggestion. The stands in the background were a chaotic blur of blue jerseys and waving arms and screams. I reached for the ball, stretching with all my might, but I was still being tackled by the defender. My fingertips brushed against the dimpled leather, a torture and a tease.
I hit the ground, the weight of the defender on top of me adding an exclamation point to the pain. I still reached for the ball even though it was out of reach now, because there was nothing else I could do. I might as well have been a wounded soldier crying out for his momma.
A Titans player scooped the ball up. The crowd noise morphed from agony to surprise and then ecstasy. The player only made it five yards before getting tackled, but it was over. The Titans had possession.
The defender who had tackled me got up and ran over to celebrate with his teammate. I continued laying on the turf. The fake grass poked up through my facemask, so close that I could pick out the individual blades and the paint that had been sprayed on them before the game. I didn’t want to move. Getting up meant accepting the mistake I had made. The game wasn’t lost, not yet, but we had it won. And I had pissed it away because I got cocky.
I forced myself to get up, and I held my head high as I jogged back to the sideline. But it took all of my willpower, and it left me exhausted and scarred when I reached the bench.
“I know,” I said when Dallas glanced over to me. “Don’t say it.”
He nodded once, but said nothing. On the other side of him, Andrew was giving me a sympathetic look. I turned away. I didn’t want his sympathy.
The depth of my failure washed over me. The Titans still had forty seconds on the clock, and all three timeouts remaining. They only needed thirty, maybe thirty-five yards before they were in field goal position. Then they would kick a field goal to win it.
The Titans quarterback threw a laser of a pass across the field, hitting his receiver perfectly before he darted out of bounds. Now they only needed fifteen yards.
Numbness replaced the pain, and I was grateful for it. Then I was annoyed by it. I deserved to feel the pain of what happened. I had blown the game for my team. I had let all of them down. We had come so far this season, and in the end, my fucking ego blew it.
And, of course, it all happened on live TV. I started to think about what people might be saying about me on social media, and that brought the humiliation and pain back, fresh and bright.
“If this goes into overtime,” Dallas was saying to the offensive coordinator, “I want to establish the run game. A few quick plays, trying to reset their defense. And as soon as we get a first down, try to throw a bomb.”
“Yeah,” the coordinator replied. “I like the plan. Especially considering the way their secondary has been—”
Suddenly he cut off as something happened on the field. The Titans had been moving to the left, but now they were cutting back. The crowd screamed in confusion.
“It’s Stevie!” someone yelled. “He intercepted it!”
Stevie was a defensive end, but he was fast enough to be on the offense. He burst into view on the other end of the Titans players, making for the sideline and then sprinting down field. My teammates jumped up and down and fist-pumped with their helmets and hugged and embraced as Stevie high-stepped into the end zone, spiking the football into the ground like it offended him.
“TOUCHDOWN STALLIONS!”
I forced myself to grin and celebrate with my teammates. We were leading, and now there were only seventeen seconds left. Relief flooded into me.
But it was all superficial. Deep down, I still felt like a fuck-up.
