That would have been a nasty hit with how fast he was coming at me, combined with the size of him. A quick burst of relief fills me before I push it away.
My vision tunnels, and finally, I see my chance.
Beckett darts across the field, wide open
When the ball leaves my hands, I know Beckett going to catch it. I get tackled to the ground the minute the ball leaves my hands, but I catch sight of Beckett gaining yards off the pass.
Wilson, Dallas’s most notorious defensive lineman, crawls off me and I pop back up, my eyes going to the scoreboard to see the replay.
Instead of the replay, there’s a picture of Jersey’s face up on the screen and my breath catches in my throat. She’s got her hands cupped around her mouth as she cheers.
My lips twitch in the corners and I draw my eyes away, staring at the field so no one can see what I simp I’ve become at the sight of her.
Beckett runs up next to me and claps me on the shoulder. I glance up to see him giving me a worried look. “What?” I question.
“Head in the game, man.” His voice is level. “You know I’m happy for you, but let’s finish this.”
I clench my jaw. I know he’s right. I have to focus on the task at hand. “Right.”
It’s imperative that we clinch this win to keep our seed in the playoffs, keep our home field advantage, and do our damnedest to get tothe Big Game.
The first half flies by, and by the time we come back out for the third, we’re down one touchdown, the taste of revenge hot on our tongues.
The clock is ticking down, nearing the end of the third quarter, and we waste no time taking the field and huddling up. On our next possession, we take the ball all the way down the field to the fifteen-yard line. I glance at the clock, and a sense of satisfaction washes over me when I see we’ve got the right amount of time left in the quarter to get one last scoring drive—exactly what I was aiming for. Keeping sight of the clock and running strategic plays to keep us on the field longer and exhaust Dallas’s defense.
I wave my teammates forward, choosing to line up right away instead of going for the huddle and allowing Dallas’s defense to regroup and rally.
The stadium is going absolutely nuts, willing us to get this next touchdown and tie up the game, but the noise settles as we approach the line of scrimmage. Time to focus.
I confidently stride over to my position at the back of the line. I yell my play, “Charlie 32!”
The ball is snapped, and my eyes dart around for the player I’m searching for.
But he’s not open.
The Rampage has double teamed him, seemingly in the know of what our plans were.
Quick to find a new option, I scan the field, but no one’s there. I clench my jaw and weigh my options.
I take a step, deciding to run it myself, but it’s too late.
A defensive player sneaks away from our offense and comes barreling toward me. I do my best to sidestep him, but his momentum is nothing to be trifled with.
Before I even know what’s happening, he’s launching himself at me and taking me down.
As I fall to the field, my left leg gets caught in his, and his momentum is still too much to force him to stop or to reposition. When we land, my leg twists at a sickening angle and something deep inside my knee pops.
I swear and fall to the ground, knowing in my soul that I won’t be getting up from this one.
TWENTY-EIGHT
jersey
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22
“Get up,”I whisper, wishing there was a way Hayes could hear me out on that field. “Get up!” Turning to Hayes’s mom—Merilee—next to me, I ask, “Why is he not getting up?”
“That was a hard hit,” his mother murmurs beside me.
