Chapter 31 #2
My eyes catch Owen's for a second. Then Reese and Dax. I look at every single one of my teammates.
“We want to fix their perception of us? We can't fix it all at once.” I shake my head. “But we can fix it one play at a time. One drive. One stop. One catch. One throw.”
My grip tightens slightly around the helmet in my hand.
“You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be better than you were yesterday.”
A few heads nod, and that’s all I need.
“We go out there, we play our game, and we make them regret thinking we aren't going to be a threat next season.”
I pause, just for a second, then I shout, “Let’s go to work and show Coach Masters how badly he fucked up.”
My team cheer, high-fiving each other as they push to their feet and we head toward the tunnel to the game that could change everything.
Dax claps his hand on my shoulder. “Nice speech, Z. Will you give me a pep talk like that before my date with Whit?”
“What date?” Reese interjects.
“The one I’ve planned in my head for when she texts me back.”
“And how long ago did you text her?”
“Two weeks.”
“I think you’re just going to have to take the L on this one.”
Dax brings his gloved hand to his chest. “Ouch. Way to wound a man.”
“Please. I think your ego could use a knock.” Reese bumps me on the side. “Try not to overthrow me this time.”
“Run faster,” I shoot back automatically.
As they jog toward the tunnel, I glance over my shoulder, and Owen is just getting up from the bench. I stop and turn. He rolls his neck and picks up his helmet.
“We got this,” I say to him.
He nods. “Yeah.” Then, without another word, he jogs past me, heading for the tunnel.
Once everyone else is out, I pull my helmet on and walk behind the rest of the team.
The tunnel is dark, but the rumbling of the stadium is already working its way through my body.
2-12...
Let's change the narrative.
The noise gets louder. The light at the end of the tunnel gets brighter.
I stop thinking and step out onto the field.
The New York Night Owls are already out, as I head to our bench.
My gaze drifts over to our competitors on the other side of the field. With a 10-4 record, they’re doing a hell of a lot better than we are and have a real chance at getting a playoff spot if they win tonight.
This game matters to them, but what they don't realize is that it matters to me more.
As I scan the bench for their quarterback, one of their players is frantically waving at the side, which gets my attention.
“What the—” I mutter just as the player takes off his helmet. The second I see the dirty blond hair and wide smile, I laugh. “Fucking, Sebi.”
I hold back a smile, instead I lift my chin in acknowledgement instead. He lifts his hand, and mouths, ‘what the fuck?!’
I wave him off, and he drops his hands, shaking his head, acting like I’ve mortally offended him. I roll my eyes. He’s acting like we aren’t meeting for drinks after the game. I’ll be more friendly then. Right now, I need to focus on beating his ass.
Coach Smith walks up beside me. “You doing the coin toss tonight?”
I nod, standing. “Then get out there.” He whacks my ass with his iPad to hurry me up.
I pull my helmet on and jog to the fifty, where Mason Moreland—another one of my old college teammates—is already waiting for me. Interesting choice. It’s usually the quarterback handling this, not the center, but I know exactly why they sent him out here.
They’re trying to get in my head.
And Mason’s the easiest way to do it.
He’s standing with his shoulders squared, his chin level, and his game face fully on.
“Evans.” He shakes my hand, and when our eyes connect, his lips lift ever-so-slightly. “Long time no see.” This is the first time we’ve actually played each other, and I’m looking forward to seeing what we can both do.
His grip is tight, but that’s not surprising considering he’s been snapping footballs since he was nine years old.
“Moreland.” I hold it for a second. “You look good.”
His gaze drifts down before connecting with mine again. “You look tired.”
“I’m 2-12 with no Coach. What do you expect?”
The corner of his mouth tips a little, but then he presses it down. “Sorry that we’re about to make it 2-13.”
I raise my brow, knowing this is his way of showing sympathy. “Don’t write us off yet. We’re doing better than that record says.”
“Good.” It’s quick, but I know he means it. “Make us work for that playoff spot, Evans.”
“Trust me, we're not rolling over.”
The referee steps in and runs through the formalities. The Night Owls call it in the air.
Heads.
They win.
Mason looks at it, then at me. “We’ll take the second half.”
I hold his gaze for a second. He thinks his defense is going to annihilate us and wants to set the tone early.
Well, Mason, I’m going to prove you wrong.
“Thanks,” I say. “Good luck.”
“Good luck, Evans.” He nods, turning back to his sideline, high-fiving Sebi on the way.
I jog back to my own, and Dax falls into step beside me before I’ve even reached the hash marks.
“Mason looks locked in.” He glances back over his shoulder before pulling his helmet on.
“Well, I hope his defense is a little less locked in than he is,” Reese mutters.
“Run your routes, and they won't need to be,” I say to both of them.
“Inspiring,” Dax replies. “Truly.”
By the time we’re ready to take the field, the special teams have already managed to secure a start at the thirty-yard line. I can work with that.
The team lines up as I yell out the call, and the second the snap hits my hand, I step back, scanning the field. Reese gets blocked immediately, but I throw a fake his way anyway, which shifts the defense just enough for Dax to break through the middle.
I throw the ball, and the second Dax catches it, everything shifts. The stadium comes alive; the sideline loses its mind, and for the first time in weeks it feels like we can actually do this.
We’re ready.
We’re so fucking ready for this.
With every drive, we keep pushing, and even through short gains, we’re always moving forward. By the time we hit the red zone, the crowd is losing their minds. Never have we gotten this close so quickly this season.
On our next play, I spot Dax near the corner and pull my arm back to throw, but I never get the chance.
Thwack!
The hit comes so hard that I barely have time to register it as I hit the turf and lose the ball.
“Fuck,” I yell, feeling pain shoot up my wrist.
The stadium is silent, and I know everyone is watching me. If I make a big deal out of this screaming pain, I’m off.
Not fucking happening today.
Before anyone can make a big deal out of it, I push myself back up, flex my hand once, and call the next play.
Just like that, no one questions me.
The pocket holds just long enough for me to get the throw off, and Dax catches it just short of the goal line before getting dragged down.
I keep the next snap myself and push straight into the pile behind my line. Bodies slam into me from every direction, but the second there’s an opening, I close my eyes and force myself through it.
When my body lands on the ground, the whistle blows.
The roar that follows rattles through my chest as my teammates swarm me, yelling over each other while helmets slam against mine.
Touchdown.
My teammates grab me before I can register what happened, and they pull me up to stand, slapping my helmet in celebration.
We did that.
Not Coach Masters.
Us.
By the time I get back to the bench, my wrist is throbbing hard enough to make my fingers ache. I flatten my hand against my thigh for a second before pulling my helmet back on.
Dax drops beside me, unusually quiet, as he looks back out at the field.
Maybe he noticed, or maybe he’s choosing not to say anything.
Either way, there are still three quarters left, so I ignore the pain and keep working.