Austin
THIRTY-FIVE
“Singleback Bunch Nasty, Mountain X Whip,” I say into my headset, the play transmitting to the speaker inside Maddox’s helmet. “Keep an eye on Wilbourne. He’s been sneaky all day. If you can’t find Emmett, you should be able to hit Jett downfield.”
“Got it,” he replies, echoing my words into the huddle.
My first game calling plays has been a challenging one; the only points we’ve been able to put on the board have come from the kicking unit.
But we’re just outside the red zone with plenty of time left in the fourth quarter, and we’re only down by eight.
If we can manage to score on this drive, we’d be in pretty good shape, but the Minnesota Graywolves’ outside linebacker has been killing us, so we need to get creative.
The offense lines up, and I scan the field, content with what I see so far.
This isn’t the prettiest play in our repertoire, but if it goes well, we’ll be inside the twenty-yard line.
Steele is one of the most explosive running backs in the league, and the closer I can get him to the end zone, the easier it’ll be for him to punch it in.
“White eighty! White eighty! Hut, hut!” The ball is snapped into Maddox’s waiting hands, and he rolls back, keeping his eyes on Emmett, who runs his route flawlessly.
He beats his defender, managing to stay open as Maddox fires the pass in his direction.
The catch is made, but just as I warned, Trenton Wilbourne comes out of nowhere, his body like a brick wall as he collides with Emmett.
The ball pops loose, bouncing wildly across the grass before players from both sides pile on top of it.
My heart stops, watching helplessly as the referees blow the play dead and head over to see which team recovered the fumble.
Replays from every angle flash across the Jumbotron, clearly showing that the football came free before Emmett was fully down, which means we may have just lost it.
Thankfully, he’s okay, popping up from where he was lying flat on his back just moments ago.
I’ll admit that it’s not any easier watching my guys take hard hits as a coach, especially knowing the kind of devastation that can come from any given tackle.
It happened to me, ending my career in the snap of a finger, and all I can do is hope that none of them ever have to endure the same fate.
Men are pulled from the pile one by one, until finally, a white and purple jersey is the last left.
Champ Carson, the receiver who plays opposite Emmett stands, lifting the ball into the air.
The refs signal that it’s still ours, causing the entire stadium to erupt into cheers.
A sigh of relief rushes from my lungs, but I don’t let the aftereffects of such a close call linger long, pulling my play card up and planning our next move.
“Strong Wing, Play Action Slide Right,” I tell Maddox. “There’s no way they’ll expect a pass on second and three, so you should be able to throw them off with the fake.”
He nods, leaning into the huddle and updating his offense. With only a few yards to go to the first down marker, it would be wise to run the ball here, but I’m looking for a larger gain. If worse comes to worst, we’ll run it next time, and it’ll still put Steele in an okay position to do his thing.
Maddox shouts his cadence, clapping right before the snap is made.
He fakes the handoff, expertly concealing the ball as Steele pretends to run with it.
By the time the defense realizes what’s going on, Jett is already wide open about fifteen yards beyond the line of scrimmage with only the Graywolves’ safety to beat.
Maddox makes the pass, which is a little high, but easy enough for the six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound tight end to pull down.
At that size, he’s not particularly agile, but makes his defender look like a child as he tucks the ball into the crook of his elbow and extends his free hand in front of him.
The stiff-arm works beautifully, sending the much smaller safety in the other direction as Jett eats up the final seven yards and crosses into the end zone uncontested.
The crowd goes wild, people standing from their seats as cheers echo through the air.
Players and coaches on the sidelines rush my way, congratulating me on my first touchdown as a professional coach.
It feels amazing, but I can’t ignore the hollow pit in my stomach that has me wondering if Paris is somewhere celebrating, too.
Is she smiling as she watches our friends jump on one another in excitement, their choreographed dance moves completely out of step, even though they practiced for what felt like hours?
Did Rowan and Rhys see the last drive, where the guys who helped them learn the game all summer worked together to score?
Are they proud of them? Are they proud of me?
Those are all questions I ask myself as I try to enjoy the moment, swallowing the lingering emotions from missing them and congratulating my men on a job well done.
This isn’t the time to get wrapped up in sadness like I’ve found myself doing for the past seven days…
not when there’s still so much work to do.
The rest of the game goes by in a flash, especially after Theo picks the ball off and scores another touchdown for the Renegades.
We win it by six, sending the Graywolves back to Minnesota with their first loss of the season.
Coach Hendricks gives his post-game speech the moment we return to the locker room, awarding me today’s game ball to commemorate the first of what I hope to be many hard-fought victories with this team.
It feels really fucking good to look around at all the faces who stood by me throughout my injury and recovery, knowing that I didn’t let them down.
Me being here is a huge gamble on their part, and I’ll never be able to thank them for believing in me as their offensive coordinator.
I may not have years of experience like some of the other candidates that interviewed for my position, but as a founding member of the Rock City Renegades, I’ll do everything in my power to make them proud.
I make it through my media obligations, practically dead on my feet by the time I return to the locker room to gather my belongings.
It’s barely dinnertime, but I’ve been here since before sunrise, and I’m in desperate need of a nap.
I haven’t been sleeping well since the night I left Paris alone in her bedroom, constantly wondering how she’s doing and if she’s taking care of herself.
It’s been hard, but I’m trying to honor her wishes and take the time she thinks I need…
even though it hasn’t changed my feelings one bit.
If anything, I only want her more, knowing what it’s like to be so close, yet so far from having her in my arms.
Digging through my duffel bag, I pull out my keys and throw the leather strap over my shoulder.
I say goodbye to the few lingering staff members who are still finishing up their tasks, heading out of the stadium and across the near-empty parking lot.
But as I reach my truck, tossing my things into the back seat, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out and freeze where I stand, watching as Paris’ name and a selfie of us from Theo’s pool party flash across the screen.
My heart leaps in my chest, relief rushing through me because finally. She’s realized we belong together.
Almost fumbling the device in my hands, I frantically press the answer button, looking heavenward as relief fills my chest. I sigh, the desperate confession bursting from my lips before I can stop it. “Paris. Baby, I miss you so mu—”
But my unbridled confession isn’t cut off by the woman I’m madly in love with. Instead, I’m greeted by a much smaller, trembling voice, the frightened tone behind it causing goosebumps to rise over every inch of my flesh.
“Coach Baker, it’s Rowan. C-can you come over? Something’s wrong with Mom.”
Fuck.