Chapter 16 #3
They hadn’t gone ninety-three yards in the prior three and a half quarters, but Trevor could feel the renewed energy in the team as Aidan dropped back.
Mo was supposed to go deep on this route, Trevor running the interior curl to try to draw the deeper safety off him. Hoping to get Mo a much-needed one-on-one matchup so he could make some of his magic happen.
The safety didn’t go quite deep enough, so Trevor improvised, sliding three yards further, then another two yards, hoping to pull him up.
He’d never have taken the risk in a regular game. Would’ve stuck to the game plan; they’d made it for a reason, hadn’t they? Drawn up the play because they thought it was going to work.
But it hadn’t. Hadn’t really been working all game. The deeper safety had clearly had his assignment drilled in over and over, until he refused to leave Mo alone with just a corner for coverage.
This time, though, his head whipped in Trevor’s direction.
Trevor didn’t quite pump fake—he didn’t have the ball, so he couldn’t fake it—but he went another yard, then two, pushing his tired muscles until they screamed, hoping to fool the guy into thinking the plan was for Aidan to actually throw him the ball.
Then finally he bit on it, pushing right into Trevor’s space. A moment later, a roar went up in the stadium, and Trevor didn’t have to look to know that Mo had caught it.
“That’s the fucking way!” Mo yelled when they got back to the huddle.
Trevor hadn’t seen his end of the play develop, but he’d rewatched it on the jumbotron, and sure enough, Mo had owned the corner’s ass one-on-one, and he’d taken that pass for a good forty-yard chunk.
Exactly the kind of downfield action the Thunder desperately needed, to spread out the Patriots’ defense. To make them not worry just about the short shit, but the deep shit, too.
The next play, Zane called for a handoff to Jaden, who, with the defenders now playing back a bit, rocking on their heels, took it for almost seven yards.
They were nearly across the fifty-yard line and the whole offensive was fired up, ready to keep going.
Trevor glanced up at the clock. They were nearly to the two-minute warning.
“Come on,” Aidan exhorted everyone. “Let’s keep it moving.”
Next play, he hit Lane in stride, who took it ten yards and that also took the Thunder under two minutes.
They had time to regroup and re-collect as the timeout ticked down.
“Zane wants to move Trevor to blocking, move Carl to his spot,” Aidan said in the huddle. “He’s better at blocking. Wants that extra bit of protection, since he thinks the Pats are gonna come in with a vengeance.”
Trevor began to nod, because that made sense.
The defense, about to give up enough plays to put the Thunder in game-winning field-goal range, had to smell the blood in the water.
“No,” Lane interrupted, instead. “Trev’s a better receiver than Carl. Better hands. I’d trust him any day.”
“Yeah,” Mo said, “you would think that.”
Lane smacked Mo on the side of the helmet. “Don’t make me kick your ass.”
“Like you could,” Mo muttered.
“Kids,” Aidan warned.
“I’m just saying, what we’re doing is working. Let’s not change it up,” Lane argued.
“Lane—” Trevor tried to insert.
“No, you’re so fucking good,” Lane retorted.
“Okay,” Aidan said. “Let’s do this double–tight end formation, then.”
He detailed the play, which if all things went well, would put them within striking distance for a touchdown. Maybe even on the edge of the red zone, if every single detail went perfectly.
“You got this,” Lane told Trevor under his breath, as they lined up. “You catch that ball and take it in, okay?”
“But—” Trevor broke off, because the play wasn’t even for a touchdown. Wasn’t even designed for that. It was supposed to be a bridge. Especially with how the Patriots defense had been playing? It seemed impossible he could make that happen.
But Lane was looking at him, not with fake confidence, but pure fucking approval in his blue eyes. Like he’d bet on Trevor every single time, without even blinking.
“You got this,” Lane repeated, and Trevor believed it.
Griff snapped the ball when there was a minute and twenty-one seconds left on the clock.
Aidan dropped back as Trevor and Lane pushed off, running their double route.
Out of the corner of Trevor’s eye, Lane’s route was a thing of fucking beauty. He picked up one defender, then another. Then a third, clearing out the mid zone, right where Trevor was going to go.
He swung around, gaze tracking Aidan’s movements.
He went to one side and then the other, pump faking once and then twice.
Then pulling back, he threw, and Trevor followed the ball.
Aidan had led him a little deeper, and he sprinted down, plucking the ball, the leather digging into his gloved fingers.
It was a perfect pass.
He didn’t need to go to the ground for it, and since Aidan had led him so well, Trevor didn’t even need to turn up field. He was already running past the twenty-yard line, then the ten. The deep safety and the corner were about to converge on him. Trevor couldn’t see it, but he could sense it.
But then at the last second, an arm that didn’t belong to him shot out and he realized that Lane was a half step behind him, breathing hard.
Lane was bigger and stronger but he’d never been as fast as Trevor.
But he was today. Right fucking now, he was.
Fast enough he’d nearly caught up with Trevor and managed to take out the one guy who could’ve caught him and stopped him before he took the ball into the end zone and got the Thunder their much-needed touchdown.
Ten seconds later, Trevor crossed the goal line and let out a primal screech. He’d done it—but no, that wasn’t right.
Lane was lifting him up in his arms, like he weighed nothing, chest rising and falling, his heart in his eyes, and it had been them, doing it.
“Fuck, fuck, I fucking love you,” Lane yelled at him, and Trevor’s jaw dropped.
Lane’s eyes widened, like he hadn’t even realized what he’d said.
Trevor was about to demand if he meant it, because he fucking better, but then they were being swarmed by the rest of the offense, everyone pulling both of them into embraces.
“Shit, shit, that was so fucking good,” Levi yelled into his ear.
“Fucking beauty,” Mo agreed.
By the time they returned to the sideline, Trevor’s breathing still hadn’t returned to quite normal.
Dawson was in the middle of lining up to kick the ball off to the Patriots for their final, forty-one-second possession when Trevor cornered Lane over by the Gatorade station.
Was Lane hiding from him? Maybe.
Maybe he hadn’t meant it, but he’d looked like he meant it.
“Did you mean it?” Trevor demanded.
Lane looked up at him in surprise.
“Um,” he said.
“Tell me you meant it, because I sure—”
“Yes,” Lane said hurriedly and with his whole chest. “Yes, I fucking meant it. I love you. Was trying to save it for the perfect moment, but then I thought, there’s no perfect moments.”
“Yeah, there are and that was one,” Trevor said, and leaned in, kissing him right there on the sideline.
Didn’t care who was watching or who was going to judge, because it was perfect. Perfect because Lane loved him and Trevor loved him back.
Finally.