He could opt for a field goal. If we tie it up, we can go into OT and live to fight another day, but we only need one yard to stop the clock again. If we’re quick, there would still be time for another play, maybe two.
“He’ll go for it,” I say. “He’s as hungry as we are for that title.”
Reid jogs out to rejoin us and we all put our heads in for the call.
“Who’s ready to win a national championship?” he asks, clapping his hands together. We all make noises of assent. “We’re going Early 94 Y-option.” It’s one of the new plays. Coach has never called it outside of practice, but he must think we’re ready. That, or he’s desperate. “We pull this off and we’ll be celebrating like kings tonight.”
“I like the sound of that,” Smith says, earning a raucous cheer from the group.
We break, and this time, when we line up, the tension at the line of scrimmage is palpable. The Georgia defenders look like they’re out for blood, and who can blame them? We all know this game is going to come down to who wants it more.
We’re all tired and bruised, and the adrenaline we carried onto the field tonight has waned. All we’ve got left is here and now.
Sweat stings my eyes and the bright lights of the stadium seem to reflect off every surface.
Maybe that’s why it takes a beat for the Georgia defense to react to our formation. They’re scrambling to adjust, but our center wastes no time snapping the ball.
Reid drops back as the O-line surges forward and Coop cuts through the chaos, stripping his coverage. I crash into the defensive end and latch onto his chest protector, digging my cleats into the soft grass. My biceps burn with exertion, but we need to hold the line.
This play has a high risk of interception given the tight quarters and Reid needs every inch we can give him.
He throws across the middle and a defender reaches up to block the pass.
Fucking fuck. My gut clenches.
The defender gets a hand on the ball and it’s tipped, sailing over his head and into the end zone.
Coop leaps into the air, fingertips reaching for the ball. He makes contact with his right hand, before disappearing behind a tangle of bodies that blocks my view.
Did he get it?
My pulse roars between my ears like a freight train as I wait for the call, and when the crowd goes ballistic, I know.
Cooper DeLaurentis just caught the game-winning touchdown.
Pride floods my chest and the roar that bursts from my lips is nothing short of animalistic.
I rush the sonofabitch—me and half the team—and when I find him at the center of the celebrating crowd, I plant a big sloppy kiss on his forehead.
“You actually did it, you cocky bastard!”
He smirks. “Guess I didn’t need another leg day after all.”
No, no he did not.
Reid joins us, grinning ear to ear. “You know this is going straight to his head, right?”
“Hell yeah it is,” Coop declares, holding the ball in the air for all to see. “But you know I couldn’t have done it alone. That was a sick throw.”
“National champions!” Parker shouts, shoving his way through the crowd.
I pull him in for a hug and clap him on the back before turning to congratulate the rest of the O-line. It was a team effort, after all.
Since the extra point doesn’t matter, the guys on the sideline rush the field, as does the coaching staff.
Coach Walker is beaming when I find him in the crowd. “Great game, son. I couldn’t be more proud if you were my kid.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tears sting the back of my eyes. “That means more than you know.”
