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ONE
SLATER
There is no pressure. Zero. None.
No one expects us to win. We’re a wild card team who barely made the playoffs and yet, I have to win this game.
It’s first and goal. There are twenty-six seconds left on the clock. We need four points to tie and five to win. We have no timeouts, so our only option is to throw the ball.
We need a touchdown.
I grip my helmet and nod when I hear the play. I point and yell and wait for everyone to get in their spots. Surely I can complete one pass out of four. I’ve had a perfectly respectable game. We win, and I’m a hero. We lose, and, well—I’ve been there before. I’m not eager to add another chapter to that book.
Our center snaps the ball. I take it, drop back, and throw a perfect spiral into the corner of the end zone. Our top receiver, Ronnie, leaps into the air. He grabs the ball as he crashes to the ground.
He caught it.
I open my mouth and throw my hands in the air, but before I can start to celebrate, I see it on the big screen. His left foot was out-of-bounds. Two inches is the difference between success and failure right now.
I ignore the home crowd as they cheer wildly. They’re rowdy and desperate for the win. It wasn’t supposed to be this close, and they know it.
Three more chances.
I take the snap and drop back again. It’s the same formation, but this time, instead of running toward the corner, Ronnie cuts back toward the center of the end zone. The outside linebacker breaks free. He’s coming right at me. I let the ball go half a second before I take the hit. I’m on my back when I hear the roaring of the crowd. Someone pulls me to my feet. I look at the replay. Incomplete pass. The damn defender got a hand on the ball and knocked it free.
Two more chances.
I’ve got to throw to another target. Ronnie’s too emotional. I can sense the tension radiating off him and he’s fifteen feet away. I can’t count on him to catch the ball after the last two plays.
I take the snap and immediately freeze. Flag on the field. Offense. False start. Five-yard penalty. It doesn’t matter. We’re still in the red zone with time on the clock. Now we’ve got a little more room to work.
Nine yards. That’s all we need.
I can do this.
I take the snap and drop back.
Jameson, our tight end, fakes to the right and then cuts back to the left. He’s open. I let the ball go. It sails like a rocket straight toward him. I can taste victory. Then, out of nowhere, the opposing safety darts across the field. He snags the ball and tucks it into his chest. He hits the ground hard. The ball doesn’t wobble—not even a little bit.
Interception.
In the end zone.
As time expired.
I pull off my helmet. It slips out of my hand onto the turf.
The noise is deafening. I’m used to it, and yet, it feels like it’s echoing in my soul. It’s so loud that I’m shaking. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline.
I lean down and pick up my helmet. Our opponents are going crazy. Watching them celebrate is like throwing salt on an open wound, so I close my eyes to regroup. Before I can slink away, I have to walk across the field to congratulate the winning quarterback. The media, the fans, and the league all expect good sportsmanship, and I won’t let anyone call me a sore loser.
I trudge over to where Deacon Ryan, the number one pick in my draft class and the opposing quarterback, stands surrounded by fawning media. I muscle my way through the crowd and give them the money shot. We smile and embrace—hugs are considered friendlier than handshakes.
Deacon is a decent guy and an excellent football player. He got drafted by the worst team in the NFL. They haven’t won a playoff game in almost three decades. Until now. My smile is genuine when I tell him congratulations. I’m not a complete jerk—I can be happy when others succeed.
Once I escape the media circus around Deacon, I head for the visitor tunnel. I still need to survive the locker room and the podium. It’s hard to say which I’m dreading more, facing my teammates or the sportswriters. The guys on this team are solid—most of them won’t blame me, at least not to my face. I’ll blame myself, though. I’ve gotten good at that.
I hate feeling like I’ve let them down.
