One half left. Thirty minutes to end this right.
I grab my helmet, lock in, and follow my team back to the field.
My chest heaves, my fingers curling into my gloves as I stare up at the scoreboard.
21-27.
We’re down by six.
Two minutes left.
This is it.
The crowd is deafening, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is my own breathing, the pound of my heart in my ears, the sound of our quarterback’s voice as he calls the play in the huddle.
I glance at Carter, his jaw tight, his eyes locked in. “We march down this fucking field. No second chances. No mistakes. Let’s finish it.”
We all nod, a silent understanding passing through the group.
This is our game, and we’re not leaving without a damn fight.
We line up.
The defense is stacked, ready for the run, but we aren’t running.
The snap is clean, and I burst off the line, cutting inside, my feet moving fast, my body reacting.
The first pass is short—Beck grabs it, pushing forward for eight yards before getting shoved out of bounds.
Clock stops.
One minute, twenty seconds left.
We hurry up, setting for the next play.
Snap.
I fake outside, then break back in, the safety biting just enough for our quarterback to thread the needle.
I catch it. Hold on. Tuck it.
Then, I push forward, legs burning, dragging a defender an extra five yards before I hit the ground.
First down.
Clock running.
Fifty seconds.
The next play is a scramble—our QB barely escaping pressure, dumping it to our running back, who dives out of bounds to stop the clock.
Thirty-eight seconds.
We’re at the fifteen-yard line.
One shot.
One chance.
