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BILLIE
Minneapolis was up, twenty-seven to twenty-four. There was a minute left on the clock, and they had the ball, hoping to score to make that lead even bigger. It was third and goal. I held my breath because Brett was giving it everything he had. He kept fighting against the guy guarding him, grappling to see if he could get an inch of an opening to rush the quarterback.
“Broudou’s been going hard at Leroy the whole game,” one commentator said.
“You’re right,” the other agreed. “What a great player we got in him. The Kings’ defense coordinator must’ve leapt for joy when he got a player of his caliber. He knows what he’s doing. All the little touches, the holds he’s doing on the quarterback? That’s what a top-notch defensive lineman does. He’s getting in the quarterback’s head. It’s his job to do anything to mess up his game.”
“Anything within the rulebook.”
“Of course within the rulebook, but Broudou is a treat to watch.”
For most of the game, they’d been talking about the two quarterbacks—Doubard’s game versus Leroy’s, though for a few moments they’d raved about Stone Reeves, the Kings’ wide receiver who’d run in two of the touchdowns. But for the last ten minutes, they’d been focused on Brett. He’d sacked Leroy twice and was pushing to get a third. If there was any time that it was needed, it was now.
The players lined up.
“Let’s see if they can pull off the money play.”
“Yeah, let’s see what Broudou is going to do here.”
The quarterback called the play, and I was on my feet.
Lo was on the couch, frowning at her phone with one of the girls trying to get her attention. Roger and Howard had ceased talking.
“He’s open! He’s totally open—” Roger yelled, pointing at the television.
The guy who’d been guarding Brett had turned to block the other defensive lineman, which gave Brett a wide-open shot to rush Leroy.
Leroy shifted back to let the ball loose, but Brett was there. His hand was up, just as Leroy threw the ball, and he got a finger on it, tipping it up.
Roger and Howard were yelling.
I couldn’t breathe.
Brett finished the sack, grabbing Leroy around the chest and taking him down in a very clean tackle. The ball was intercepted by one of the Kings’ players, and he ran for their endzone. Because most of the Minneapolis team had been positioned behind him, he had an almost open field. He got to the Kings’ fifty-yard line before getting caught and pushed out of bounds.
I whooped. The guys were going crazy.
Lo frowned. “What happened?”
The announcers were going crazy as well.
“What happened?” Roger repeated his wife’s question, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me off my feet. “This one’s man just gave us a chance to freaking win this bitch.”
Luna started giggling.
Lo scowled. “Roger, language.”
“Oh. Sorry.” His wide grin said he was having a hard time meaning it. He let me go and ran a hand through his hair. “Man. This is great fu—errr, great—er, football to watch. What a game.”
“You stop talking as if it’s done.” Howard’s tone was no-nonsense. “We ain’t done. We still gotta score.”
Right. His words doused us in reality, and we all quieted, though I was pretty sure Roger was praying under his breath.
The Kings ran off the field, and the camera lingered on Brett as his teammates pounded him on the shoulder pads in congratulations. A few of the coaches went over, showing their thanks, as the offense took the field.
Roger sat on the couch, but scooted all the way to the edge, his elbows on his restless legs as he breathed into his palms. “We need to get closer. Just a little closer and we can do a field goal, tie the game.”
“Forget a field goal.” Howard grunted, gripping his second beer. “We’re going for a touchdown. We’re going to win this thing.”
