The Brotherly Shove

27. Breaker

CHAPTER 27

brEAKER

Now

Santa Clara, California

I miss you

I'm 3 lockers down from you. How can you miss me?

Ah come on B. Don't make me sound as needy as I am. You weren't in my bed last night. I didn't get to kiss you this morning. I can't walk up to you and run my hands up and down your naked chest the way I want to right now…

And this is where I put an end to line of speaking. I don't have my pads on yet, and if you make me pop a boner in front of the team, you're going to be in big trouble.

Oooohh, don't threaten me with a good time, daddy.

NO! Nope nope nope. Never again, Lennon Griffith, or so help me God.

Party pooper. Is it such a crime to miss my boyfriend when he picks his mother over me?

If I recall, I offered to have you hand out and stay over with Ma and I last night for our three out of seven fishes feast & Rankin and Bass marathon. I even bought you matching PJ bottoms

And if I recall, you also said there was probably no way we could sleep in the same house without waking up in the middle of the night and ripping those silly penguin pajamas off each other, probably scarring Mare for life, because we both know you're never quite quiet enough, sweet thing.

You love it. And I love you. And I miss you too. I can't wait for tonight. Pizza, a Christmas cookie wooden mosaic puzzle, and me kicking your sorry ass at Spite And Malice while we watch Elf over and over all night.

I can't think of a better way to spend my Christmas night than doing all of that with you, baby.

And I love you too, B.

The energy at Twin Peaks Field today is nothing short of electric tonight. Holiday games always have a bit of a different feel. Fans come from far and wide, some times bringing their families and sometimes just themselves to our home to watch their teams play. They sacrifice their time off, their traditions, their turkey dinners to root for us, to cheer for us. To watch us try to bring them home a W.

Tonight's game is no different, especially not with our position in the playoffs at stake.

Win, and the Redwoods are in the playoffs, led by Mr. Irrelevant himself.

Lose, and we go home, lick our wounds and try again next year.

And I likely collapse in on myself in a haze of postseason sadness and Oreo crumbs.

We've been neck and neck with Dallas from the get go. We won the coin toss and deferred. Dallas got the ball and scored on their opening drive, despite our defense's best effort. Me and the rest of the offense came on field and answered with a touchdown of our own.

One three and out for Dallas, one three and out for us.

A 70 yard drive that ended with a field goal for them, a 64 yard drive that ended in a field goal for us.

No scores until the end of the second, where I threw another touchdown to the endzone, securing us another six points, followed by a two point conversion.

Not to be outdone, Dallas managed a similar drive, tying the game up right at the half.

The third quarter was quieter. We scored another touchdown in the first drive, but neither team has managed to get on the board since.

Currently, I'm sitting next to Len on the sideline, baseball cap on my head, rewatching our last drive on a tablet provided to me by someone on the offensive coaching staff. Our play calling, our lineup, our execution was all perfect, but Dallas got the best of us anyway.

If I wasn't so grossed out by the sweat and turf all over my hands and their potential to give me diphtheria, I'd be biting the absolute fuck out of my nails right now.

Len nudges my shoulder, nodding for me to look up and watch the play. It's third and seven at our thirty-two yard line. There's scoring potential here, whether it be a touchdown or a field goal, and with a little less than ten minutes on the play clock and only seven points separating us on the board, I am severely, severely uncomfortable.

Dallas snaps the ball, their quarterback fakes a throw and then hands it off to a running back, who makes it a solid five yards before getting swallowed up in traffic.

Third and two. If that was the Redwoods, if that was me and Lennon, we'd be running a quarterback sneak. The Tush Push, as James Adler made sure to spread around until it caught on, bless the man.

But they aren't us. They aren't as in sync. They aren't as disciplined. They aren't as fucking good as we are, so out goes the field goal team.

I hold my breath as their kicker lines up his shot, almost jumping off the bench when I think one of our guys tips the ball, but I'm wrong. It sails through the goalposts, straight down the middle like a string was pulling it through.

Well, fuck.

"Lawson," Coach Elliot calls to me as someone hands me my helmet and I pull it over my head. He gestures towards where my offensive line is suiting up on the sideline, then grabs my shoulders.

"Don't let them fuck this up."

Inspiring, Coach. Thanks a lot.

The ball is punted and caught for a fair catch at the twenty five yard line.

We run out on the field, and once in the huddle, I give the quickest pep talk known to man before relaying the play call.

"Alright, guys. We don't have this in the bag yet, but it's not over until it's over. Let's get out there, run down the clock as much as we can and then take it to the endzone. Got it?"

I'm met with a bunch of helmet head taps, and I defer the play call to Lennon. We break and line up.

Snap, fake, handoff. Smith runs for twelve yards, a first down.

Snap, short throw to my the running back on my right. A horizontal passback to me, then another short pass forward. Second down.

And like this we go, short forward passes and quick runs trucking us down the field. Yard by yard, inch by inch. Four whole minutes of playtime on this drive — an incredible feat if I do say so myself. If we can continue to run the clock down and then score, we'll give ourselves a better chance of keeping Dallas from having enough time to take the lead.

We make it to the 17 yard line with a little less than six minutes on the clock. Not ideal, but if we can score here, I have faith in our defense and their ability to keep Dallas out of the end zone. Lennon snaps the ball and I catch it, taking a few steps back. It takes a moment, but I spot a wide receiver completely open and unmanned near the corner of the end zone. I lob the ball and watch it hurdle straight towards him, but he's knocked down from the side before he can catch it.

I'm waiting to see if anyone else can get to it before it hits the ground when I'm knocked in my left side with a resounding thud. Despite my pads, the wind is knocked straight out of me as I fall to the turf with three hundred pounds of Dallas muscle on top of me. My right shoulder takes the brunt of it, but I can still feel the reverberation of my helmet in my skull as it ricochets off the ground and back again. Black dots spot in front of my eyes, and through the ringing in my ears, I can faintly hear the sounds of whistles blowing in every direction, a yellow flag landing directly in front of my face.

I lie there, my breathing stunted as the man who tackled me is pulled off by someone in a Redwoods jersey. There's a scuffle of feet in my line of vision, and if I had to guess, a fight is about to break out over the dirty late hit I just took. I'd love to be able to get up and defend myself, but when I attempt to put pressure on my left hand to push myself up, a bolt of pain so excruciating it almost makes me piss myself right here on the turf shoots through my shoulder and down my spine. Resigned, I wait until the medics can come help me up.

I'm sure a medical time out has been called, and I watch as officials run in from all sides of the field to break up the mass of men standing over me. After what feels like an eternity of lying here with my head on the ground, I'm assisted to my feet by two trainers and a nurse practitioner. I thank god for the mouth guard between my teeth when the sharp pain explodes in my shoulder again when touched as I'm lifted. I'm not dizzy, nor do I think I have any leg injuries, so before they can even ask me any questions, I'm hobbling to the side of the field.

I look up and see Ma hanging over the wall from her seat, face bright red and screaming with both her middle fingers up. She refused to let me put her in a box for the game so that she could be closer to the action.

Well, here ya go, Ma. You get to see your boy get fucking wrecked up close. You're welcome.

At some point, my ass finds the bench. My helmet is removed and tiny flashlights are burning my retinas. Checking to see if I need to go into concussion protocol, I suppose. I keep my shoulder still, not yet wanting anyone to know that I'm pretty sure it has popped right out of its socket under all these pads.

I know I should tell them, I know I should. But I have a feeling I know what's going to happen next. Dallas was given a 15 yard penalty for the dirty hit I took. We're only two yards from the endzone. If I'm pulled out of the game, some running back will be put in as QB, we'll kick a field goal and likely lose the game.

There's only two people I know of who can make what needs to happen, happen. I cannot get pulled.

Coach is conferring with his staff, his face behind his laminated play sheet, shielding his mouth from the cameras and anyone who might be watching. I see our kicker warming up on the sidelines and start to shake my head. No, no, no. Not fucking happening.

"Coach!" I call out, biting my tongue to hide my wince as I push off the bench. "Coach, I'm fine. I don't have a concussion. It was a hard hit but I got this. Don't send in the field goal unit. Let me back out. We'll run the sneak and we'll get the touchdown. I promise you I can do this."

Coach Elliot looks at me skeptically, even more so when Lennon appears at my side, frantically shaking his head 'no'.

“Absolutely not, Coach. It's not worth it. You saw that hit. Send in the field goal unit, we've got plenty of time?—”

"Lennon!" I cut him off with a harsh hiss between my teeth. "I can do this. We can do this."

He leans in to whisper directly in my ear, his voiced seething with anger and pain.

"Do you think I don't know? You think I didn't see you down on that field? Your right shoulder is fucked and you're hiding it. Don't be a goddamn idiot, Breaker."

"Lennon," I say, dropping my voice to a whisper that matches his. "I need this. We need this. You know it, and I know it. We won't win otherwise. I love you, but shut the fuck up and get out on that goddamn field, now."

He pulls back, and I see that his blue eyes have gone a dark shade of midnight blue. Out of anger? Fear? Lust? It's hard to be sure.

"You two got this? If I put Lawson in, you gonna follow through Griffith?" Coach asks, and neither Lennon nor I take our eyes off each other. A beat passes, and a bunch of sick butterflies flap wildly in my stomach as the medical timeout starts to wind down.

"We got this," he finally bites out between gritted teeth, and a moment later we're lined up in formation on the field, our offense practically on top of each other. No one even bothers trying to draw Dallas offsides, we're close enough to the endzone. We've done this a thousand times. We absolutely have this.

Lennon snaps the ball, and though it feels like a million swords stabbing me in my left arm as soon as I move it, I manage to grip the ball and hop on Lennon's back. My mind goes blank, the stadium goes silent, and all I can focus on is the throb in my shoulder, the hands pushing my ass and the man underneath me as he surges forward.

A millennium goes by as I'm suspended in this time warp. Not hearing, not seeing, feeling only pain, pricks of needles all over my skin and a thousand pound chip on my shoulder.

Except wait, it's not a thousand pound chip. It's a thousand pounds of sweaty football players lying on top of me like they're a bunch of muscled up princesses and I'm the pea under their mattress. Slowly, too slowly, the weight starts to lift. As the pressure eases off my back, the blood in my left arm boils like a raging pot left on the stove unattended for too long. There must be blood leaking out of my ears, my nose, my eyes. Where else would it all go when it's bubbling over like this?

The mass beneath my chest slides out from underneath of me, but before my face can hit the turf, I'm yanked to my feet by my good arm. I almost cry when the football slips from my grasp until I see where my feet are planted.

Right over the white line. Right in the endzone. We did it. I did it. He did it. My heart beats wildly in my chest, a beat made up of both celebration and pure shock. Lennon rips my helmet off of my head, and I'm sure he's about to give me a whack upside my temple and haul me to the medical tent over his shoulder.

Just when I think I can never be shocked by anything ever again, Lennon removes his own helmet and then grabs me by the cheeks, pulling me in and planting a kiss directly on my lips.

"You're so stupid," he cries as he pulls away, and then his mouth is right back on mine, pressing long, hot, wet kisses on and around my lips.

"You're so stupid," he chants between kisses that I'm too weak to return. "You're so stupid, Breaker. Why would you do that, baby? Why would you do that? You're so stupid."

I look up at Lennon's teary eyes as he finally pulls away, my head feeling dizzyingly light from the onslaught of his affection.

"You're kissing me, Lennon. You're kissing me right here," I say, my voice slurring with love and admiration for this man. My man.

"Yeah," he laughs, taking a quick look around at the crowd in the stadium. "I'm kissing you out loud, baby. I'm loving you out loud."

I smile, and Lennon's bright blue eyes and gorgeous, sweat slicked face is the last thing I see before my body goes limp and my eyes drift shut.