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Hud walked over to the sidelines, found a corner behind the bench, leaned over, and retched. Closed his eyes.
Breathed in. Out. In. Out.
“You okay, Hud?” Toby had run up, then taken a step back. Mostly water—Hud didn’t eat much before games—but still.
“Water,” Hud said, and Toby grabbed a water bottle from the metal basket, tossed it to him.
Hud squirted it into his mouth, washed it out, spat. Tossed it back. “Yeah,” he said to Toby’s question. “I’m fine.”
He put on his helmet. “Let’s finish this game.”
“Hud.” Toby fell in step with him. “Don’t do something stupid.”
“Did he target her?”
“The DE? I don’t—”
“That was the third time he hit her—or tried to.”
Coach was pulling them in for a chat, but Hud barely heard the words as he searched the other sideline for number sixty-three.
“Vikings on three,” Jackson said as Coach walked away.
He put his fist in. “Vikings!”
“We’re going to run that play again,” Jackson said as they ran out.
“Nope,” said Hud. “Give the ball to Toby. I want to see if sixty-three blitzes again.”
“Hud.”
“It’s an exhibition game, Jack! Give the freakin’ ball to Toby!”
Jackson looked at him, then nodded. They huddled up, then Hudson lined up his gaze on the D-end.
Only, it wasn’t sixty-three, and Hudson dearly hoped he hadn’t been pulled from the game.
Toby drove for three yards, then Jackson got his replay and aired it out to Hudson in the flats. He pulled it in, a gorgeous catch for a stellar throw, landed a stiff arm in the chest of the safety—sent him flying and found himself in the end zone.
He slammed the ball to the ground and prayed for another shot at goal.
The quarter ended, and the Thunder managed a field goal that ate up most of the fourth quarter clock. Hudson prowled the sidelines, his gut in a knot. He finally took the field again, five minutes left on the play clock.
Sixty-three was on the field, cocky as he came out of the huddle.
Hudson barely registered the play. A running play, up the gut.
Perfect. Hudson lined up, his body buzzing, tasting the tackle.
Sixty-three came off the line, sloughed his defender and—
Hudson had never hit someone so hard in his life. He started ten yards back, so by the time he hit sixty-three, he rolled with a full head of steam, a locomotive that lifted the big defensive end off his feet and slammed him into the ground.
Not quite an illegal hit, but maybe—definitely—unnecessary necessary roughness.
The guy lay on the field after Hudson rolled off him. Stood over him.
“Welcome to the rest of the game.”
