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Vikings were up by four.
They lined up for the kickoff, Yannick placing the ball. The Berlin Thunder brought the ball back to thirty-three, and the Vikings defenders came onto the field.
Three downs later, the Thunder were back to punting.
The Vikings came on the field with one minute in the quarter.
This time, Hud didn’t look at her. She took her position, watched the line, counted the snap, and she spotted the play developing in the backfield. Two receivers out, the tight end blocking, Jackson bouncing back, looking.
The center and tackle fighting hard on the line, all regulation—wait. The guard had a grip on the defender, threw him down.
Hand on her flag, she jerked it out—
Spotting the defensive end already headed for the QB, fire in his eyes, she backpedaled, tossing out her flag.
She wasn’t sure if the player changed directions or if she just moved into his path, but the flag flew out a second before—bam!
The hit stole her breath even as she flew, maybe five yards, or ten, but she slammed into the ground, bouncing, her head hitting the turf with an explosion of pain. Her breath swept from her and then, in a blink—
Everything went dark.
* * *
He wanted blood.
Hud stood, helmet off, with the other players surrounding Iris and tried not to do something really stupid.
Like push through the trainers surrounding her, grab her hand, and call out her name.
Please, Iris, wake up.
And then there was the other urge—to find Werner Vogel, number sixty-three, and destroy the defensive end. Hud had blown Vogel up a few plays earlier when he’d made a beeline for Iris, and Hud had tried to tell himself he was just edgy and rattled by Ziggy’s call.
And the fact Iris wouldn’t talk to him.
Because it had to be his overactive imagination that said she’d been targeted, right?
“Make a hole!” This from Coach Clay as he directed the cart into the field.
She still wasn’t moving. Just lay there, her hat off, her eyes closed, painfully broken in her stripes.
He’d seen the hit. Just by happenstance, out of the corner of his eye. He’d run the route perfectly, thirty yards down, a bootleg, juked, got free, his hand in the air—Jackson, I’m open, hit me!
And then, right behind his QB, there was Iris, backpedaling a second beforebam!the D-end pancaked her.
Hud put his hand down and took off back up the field.
Jackson threw the ball over his head.
The official whistled the play dead, and Hud caught up with Jackson as the players gathered around her, the other officials yelling to get back.
Trainers ran out from both sides as the players formed a circle. A few had taken off their helmets, dropped to a knee.
He just stood there, his gut churning.
The cart came in, and he stood back as a couple EMTs strapped her onto a board. She roused then, slightly, moaning, and they affixed portable oxygen on her.
Then they carted her away to the applause of the stands, and the head ref called for a time-out while the officials regrouped.
