Chapter 20 #6
The camera immediately zoomed in as helmets and jerseys slowly untangled from the pile, but Jalen didn't move right away.
When the last defender stood, Jalen remained on one knee with one hand pressed firmly against his shoulder.
My dad leaned forward so quickly that the bowl of popcorn nearly slid off his lap.
"Damn."
I couldn't breathe.
Every instinct inside me told me to grab my keys, get in my car, and drive straight to the stadium.
I wanted to see him with my own eyes.
I wanted to know he was alright.
I wanted this awful feeling sitting in my chest to disappear.
Then the image from earlier forced its way back into my mind before I could even stand.
The parking lot.
The waitress leaning comfortably against his SUV.
The smile on her face.
The headline.
I closed my eyes for the briefest second.
I hated how much those pictures had gotten inside my head.
I hated that one photograph had been enough to make me question everything we had built over the last two weeks.
Every time I thought about returning his calls, that image appeared again, pulling me right back into the uncertainty I had been trying so hard to escape.
My chest tightened until it almost hurt.
I stayed exactly where I was.
I stayed quiet.
I stayed composed.
Inside, however, it felt as though my heart was being pulled in two completely different directions.
Part of me was angry.
Part of me was hurt.
Every part of me still wanted to be beside him.
The stadium grew noticeably quieter as trainers sprinted onto the field and dropped to one knee beside him.
The commentators lowered their voices while the camera stayed fixed on Jalen.
I leaned forward without realizing I had moved.
"Please get up," I whispered.
My dad glanced at me before looking back at the television.
"Come on, son," he muttered under his breath.
One of the trainers spoke to Jalen while carefully examining his shoulder.
Another pointed toward the sideline.
Even without hearing the conversation, I knew exactly what they were telling him.
They wanted him to come out of the game.
Jalen slowly pushed himself onto one knee and winced as he tested his shoulder.
The trainer spoke again.
Jalen shook his head.
The trainer pointed toward the sideline a second time.
Jalen shook his head again.
A few seconds later, he stood on his own.
The crowd erupted into applause.
My dad finally released the breath he had been holding.
"That boy is tough."
I couldn't answer.
I watched Jalen slowly roll his shoulder before reaching for his helmet.
He flexed his fingers around the facemask, adjusted the chin strap, and jogged back toward the huddle as though nothing had happened.
I knew better.
Pain had a way of hiding itself behind determination.
The third quarter melted into the fourth with Houston still trailing, and every possession became more important than the one before it.
The commentators openly questioned whether the Texans had enough time left to pull off another comeback.
My dad sat forward with both elbows resting on his knees.
"They've got to answer right here."
Jalen took the field again.
Something about him had changed.
The frustration that had followed him through the first half had disappeared, and the calm confidence I recognized had finally returned.
He wasn't forcing throws anymore.
He wasn't rushing.
He trusted his reads, moved confidently through the pocket, and chipped away at the defense one completion at a time.
The offense found its rhythm again, and so did the crowd.
With every first down, the noise inside the stadium grew louder.
With every completed pass, hope slowly returned.
My dad stood up and began pacing in front of the television.
"That's it," he said excitedly.
"Keep moving the chains."
I barely heard him.
Despite everything that had happened earlier that day, despite the photographs, despite the unanswered questions that refused to leave my mind, I couldn't stop feeling proud every time Jalen completed another pass.
My heart still recognized him even while my mind argued with itself.
Less than two minutes remained when Houston reached the red zone.
The entire stadium stood.
The television cameras swept across thousands of fans waving towels and holding their breath.
Jalen settled behind center one more time.
The ball was snapped.
He dropped back as the pocket immediately began collapsing around him.
For one terrifying second, it looked as though he was about to take another hit.
Instead, he stepped forward at exactly the right moment, escaped the pressure, and fired a perfect pass over the middle.
The receiver caught the ball just inside the goal line before tumbling into the end zone.
Touchdown.
The stadium exploded.
I was already on my feet before I realized I had moved.
My dad threw both hands into the air.
"Yes!"
The replay rolled across the screen from every possible angle while the commentators shouted over the deafening roar of the crowd.
The scoreboard changed.
Houston had taken the lead.
Thirty seconds remained.
My dad laughed as he clapped his hands together.
"That's playoff football!"
I laughed too, but my eyes never left the television.
The cameras found Jalen standing on the sideline with his helmet tucked beneath his arm as teammates crowded around him, slapping his back and wrapping him in hugs after the game-winning drive.
He looked exhausted.
He also looked relieved.
The announcer's voice echoed through the living room.
"With tonight's win, the Houston Texans officially clinch a playoff berth."
My dad pumped his fist.
"That's my quarterback."
I smiled.
I truly did.
Watching him fight through the pain and lead his team to victory filled me with a pride I couldn't put into words.
At the same time, the image that had haunted me all afternoon quietly resurfaced.
I saw the parking lot again.
I saw the waitress leaning against his SUV.
I saw the headline crawling across the television screen.
No matter how hard I tried to stay in the moment and celebrate what I had just watched, one question refused to leave me alone.
What had really happened?