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Chapter 4
Cullen
My nerves were morefrazzled than ever, the stakes higher than they’d ever been. It was the start of the fourth quarter and Clifton County were up 20-16. Neither team had scored in the third quarter, and the next twelve minutes had the power to dictate the rest of my life.
I was scared.
Coach had been barking instructions, his voice louder, harsher, scarier than I’d ever heard. He made it seem like the final quarter was a matter of life and death.
Trying to keep a positive stance, I high fived Tennessee. “We got this, Tenn.”
“Yeah, we do,” Tennessee replied, grabbing my shoulder with a tight squeeze. “We got this, Cullen.”
“Yep,” I said, though my conviction was low, making Tenn pinch me harder before he dashed onto the field.
I glanced up at the scoreboard, the numbers taunting me. We needed a touchdown, and we needed it soon. I closed my eyes and lifted my eyes to the sky, praying for a miracle.
“Cullen?” For a moment I thought the heavenly sound was an answer to my prayers, but I turned to see Sierra at my side. Holding up a bottle, she ordered me to take a sip. I grabbed it but she never let go, our fingers entwining as I gulped down a swig of the sugary drink.
In that moment, I wished that life could be so simple. That I could be the one delivering water bottles and not having to call the plays or make the winning touchdown pass. Every doubt, every insecurity about my ability to be the top quarterback and a victorious captain resurfaced. I’d been in a losing team for three years—what made me think I could turn things around?
“Cullen,” Sierra said, pulling the bottle from my grip. Her brown eyes darkened, like they were reflecting the fear in mine. “Believe.”
“What?” The gentleness of her tone snapped me back to the present.
“Believe,” she whispered, her fingers clasping mine with a sudden intensity. With the barest nod of her head, she directed me onto the field, saying, “You’re the Dragon Slayer. Now go!”
Running toward my team, my lungs struggled to absorb oxygen, nothing to do with my fitness levels and everything to do with little Sierra Huntington imploring me to believe.
Believe.
She’d said it like she did. Like she had faith in me.
Which I was beginning to think my father didn’t.
Oh, the half time message had started out positive: we were still in the game, and we’d done a lot of things well. We had to play to the standards we’d set throughout training, with grit and determination, with calmness and attention to detail. We had to be laser focused and keep our heads.
And then he subtly mentioned my misjudged throw, weak into the head wind that had allowed Clifton to score their third touchdown. It was one of those moments when you wanted the ground to swallow you up, like the whole reason we were losing was down to my one, bumbled throw. But Dad, ever clever, followed it up with his spiel about coming together, playing for our school, wearing the jersey with pride. But the seed of doubt had been sown, my confidence eroded, my talent questionable.
All of that had led to a lack luster third quarter and now I was relying on prayers to save us.
Well, until Sierra said, “Believe.”
My whole life I’d been touted as an athletic star, an up-and-coming prodigy, the future number one draft choice, a Super Bowl champion. It was all pretty heady stuff, but Dad was determined to make it happen. His college career had been cut short by a torn ACL that had never repaired properly. A medical malpractice suit led him to settle out of court, his NFL dream over. Well, not quite. It had been resurrected through me.
My one and only purpose in this life was to play pro football, complete Abe Mercer’s dream. There was no alternative, no other option.
And yet, in the next twelve minutes everything I’d worked for, everything Dad had worked for, might be lost.
The clock ticked on, minutes rushing by in seconds it seemed, defeat appearing to be imminent. The noise from the sidelines and the stadium was deafening and I could barely hear my own calls. With less than two minutes remaining we were on Clifton County’s 16-yard line, and the final drive came down to trust. I had the ball, my feet were dancing, my arm was moving but hesitant, my eyes searching.
But I knew where Tennessee would be.
Belief.
It was one of those passes you practice in training, but never actually play in a game—the no-look pass. Intuition, connection, chemistry, call it what you will. The ball spiraled through the air and Tennessee grabbed it down, the best hands in the game. Touchdown.
Covington Chargers 23, Clifton County 20.
