Dawson gave up and shot him a glare. Atemperedglare, sure, but still a glare.
“Oh yeah.” Cameron winced. “Sorry. You probably want to uh . . .focus up.”
And on cue, on the field, the Thunder offense came to a stop at fourth and two, right on the twenty-three-yard line.
Marty glanced over at him, inclining his head towards the field, and yeah, they were going to kick the field goal.
Aidan jogged over to the sideline and made a brief but impassioned argument to go for it, but Dawson already knew how that was going to go.
He took one last practice kick into his net, and then he and Cam and Joey, the long snapper, jogged out onto the field.
On his way past, Aidan was still grumbling under his breath about how they could’ve gone for it and gotten the first down, but he patted Dawson on the helmet anyway, giving him a love tap of support and encouragement.
The wind stayed steady as the Thunder’s field goal unit took their positions.
Dawson did what he did every single time he kicked a field goal. Hundreds,thousands,of field goals, he’d kicked this exact same way.
Deep breath, facing the goal posts, checking the wind one last time.
He met his holder’s eyes—in Baltimore it had been Nicky, but now it was Cameron—and nodded. Stepped backwards, stepped to the side.
Took another deep breath.
Heard the whistle, and like a well-oiled machine, the ball was snapped to Cameron, who caught it.
He didn’tfumblethe ball, not exactly. He got it turned and positioned properly but only half a second before Dawson’s foot met it.
Dawson didn’t need to hear the intake of the crowd as the ball sailed through the air, just narrowly missing the right upright.
He’d already known it wasn’t going to be good.
Dismay bubbled inside him but Dawson wiped his expression clean before it could make it to the surface. There’d been enough pictures and videos of him staring at missed field goals, of balls barely missing the target, last year.
There didn’t need to be any more.
He felt a tap on his shoulder as he headed back towards the sideline, but Dawson didn’t have to look up to see who it was.
Cameron.
“Sorry, man,” he said, all the dismay Dawson had carefully kept away from his face painfully obvious in Cam’s voice and in his expression.
It wasn’t fine, so Dawson wasn’t going to say it was fine, so instead he just gave the rookie a nod.
It might not have even been his fault. He’d technically pulled the ball down and rotated it properly, getting it set before Dawson had kicked it.
But it was still a slight wrinkle in a system that should be perfectly smooth, that should work flawlessly and effortlessly every single fucking time.
It didn’t matter whose fault it was, who had made the wrinkle—if it was Dawson, again, or if it had been Joey, fucking up the snap, or if it had been Cameron, not getting the hold just right.
Dawson hit the sideline. Aidan tapped him on the back again, a brief touch, similar to what he’d done before the kick, and exactly how he’d have done it if Dawson made it.
Dawson knew it because when they’d both played for Michigan, he’d tapped him exactly the same way, too many times to count.
At least, Dawson thought as he tugged his helmet off and set it on the bench, they were still ahead, and that field goal hadn’t been for the lead—only to pad it further.
He’d had one too many experiences last season where his fuckups had cost the Ravens the lead—or even the game.
He wouldn’t wish that feeling on his worst enemy.
