He’d picked up his helmet and was getting ready to head back into the locker room, feeling good about what they’d done, but then Duke, filling in for an injured safety, jumped in front of the Texans’ quarterback’s throw and picked it off.
Duke made it almost to mid-field before he got tackled.
Marty shot Dawson a look across the sideline as Aidan and the offense went back on the field. There might be enough time for a touchdown, but it was more likely Dawson would get called out for a last-second field goal, if Aidan could get them in Dawson’s range.
Dawson had the stray thought of,what even is my range, anymore?before he shut it down. His range was what it had always been. In Baltimore he’d kicked dozens of fifty-plus-yard field goals.
He could do it again. There was no question in his mind that he could.
Did Marty and the coaching staff agree with him?
Dawson set up the ball on the tee in front of his net and, instead of watching Aidan’s progress down the field, kicked it half a dozen times, focusing on making sure he was in a peak warmed-up state.
The roar of the crowd told him the offense was making progress. He heard the announcer call out a first-down play, apass caught by Lane. Then a nice screen pass to Jaden, their running back.
When he looked up next, Marty was standing there, just outside the circle of space Dawson preferred.
“You good?” he asked.
Dawson nodded.
“They could keep going but I think they’re gonna run out of time. You’re gonna have to be ready. No time to really get set up properly.”
He nodded again. Had expected that, and a glance up at the enormous play clock confirmed it.
“I’m ready,” Dawson said. “Whatever it is. Send me out.”
Marty tilted his head and then gave him a sharp nod. “Okay.”
Dawson wasn’t going to fuck up Marty’s faith in him. But even more than that, he wasn’t about to fuck up—anymore, anyway—his faith in himself.
By the time the offense finally ran out of time and Aidan spiked the ball, stopping the clock with just enough time for Dawson, Cam and the rest of the kicking team to run out onto the field, it was a fifty-one-yard field goal.
Not the longest he’d ever kicked, but still a significant distance.
Cam’s smile had disappeared and in its place was an expression full of intense focus. Dawson had a feeling it mirrored his own.
This field goal wouldn’t make or break the game, probably, but it would be great to go into the locker room leading seventeen to three.
It was impossible not to feel some pressure, but at least it felt manageable.
Nothing like when he’d kicked the Super Bowl–winning field goal.
Dawson took his position, the ref blew the whistle, and then there was nothing else to do but his job.
Joey snapped the ball, Cam caught it out of the air and positioned it, and then Dawson’s foot connected.
It was less than a second, and he let out a harsh breath as the ball sailed right through the uprights. For a moment, he was worried it might veer left with the wind, but he’d taken that into account with the angle, and it still easily made it through.
Cam jumped into him like an excited puppy. “What a fucking great kick!” he exclaimed.
Joey rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too. “Sick shit, man,” he told Dawson, patting him on the helmet.
Aidan met him on the sideline. “Good show, bro,” he told Dawson, hand on his back. “Knew you could do it.”
And Dawson felt the corner of his heart thathadbeen bruised and blackened begin to beat to life again.
Chapter 9
