As we file back toward the tunnel, Marcus falls in step beside me. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You seem… distracted.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Let’s just win this thing.”
But he’s right. Iamdistracted. Every time I line up, I think about Olivia in that press box. Watching. Analyzing. Probably writing notes about how I need to stay focused.
Get your head in the game, Storm.
The second half kicks off, and I force everything else out. Just me, the ball, and my team.
We drive downfield. I hit Derek for a fifteen-yard gain. Tank bulldozes through for another seven. Marcus catches a slant for the first down.
Then I see it, the safety cheating up, leaving the corner one-on-one with our fastest receiver.
I call an audible. Derek looks at me, nods. He knows what’s coming.
The ball snaps. I drop back. The pocket collapses fast, but I step up, eyes downfield.
Derek breaks free.
I throw.
The ball spirals through the air, perfect rotation, perfect arc. Derek tracks it, hands extending, and—
Touchdown.
The stadium explodes. My teammates mob me, pounding my helmet, shouting. But all I can think is:Did she see that?
We’re up twenty-four to seventeen.
Portland answers with a field goal. Twenty-four to twenty.
Four minutes left.
We get the ball back, and Coach calls for a conservative drive. Run the clock. Get a first down or two. Make them burn their timeouts.
But on second and seven, I see the defense stacking the box.
I audible again.
“Storm, what are you doing?” Tank hisses.
“Trust me.”
The snap. I fake the handoff, roll right. The linebackers bite. Marcus slips into the flat, wide open.
I hit him. He turns upfield. One juke. Two. He’s got nothing but green grass ahead—
And he’s tackled at the five-yard line.
First and goal.
Two plays later, I punch it in myself on a quarterback sneak.
Thirty-one to twenty. Three minutes left.
