“Heads it is, Wolves win the toss.”
The stadium erupts a loud roar enveloping us. I look at Deej and he gives me a subtle nod. I go on with the plan. “Defense wants the ball second half. We defer.” I say my voice calm and clear.
Coach’s voice is clear in my head: “Let them have the ball. Let them take the first hit, use their carefully scripted opening plays, and deal with the overwhelming volume of The Den on that first drive. We trust DJ and the defense; they live for this. We send the message right out of the gate: You’re not scoring easily in our house.”
“The Wolves defer, Vipers, you may choose to receive or defend.” The ref turns toward Rex awaiting the answer.
“We will receive and defend the south endzone.” Rex replies sharply with no hesitation. There’s a reason this man has been a powerhouse for years. I meet Rex’s gaze one last time as we separate. Rex’s eyes hold a silent, arrogant challenge. ‘We’re taking the ball and scoring first. You’re going to regret allowing us this chance.’
I knock shoulders with Deej. “You got this, give them hell.”
DJ gives me a smile, not one of his fun playful grins, but one of pure malice aimed directly at Rex, ready to show the world exactly what he and his boys are capable of. “Let’s fucking go.”
DJ knows he’s just lit a fire under the Vipers asses with his challenge and he’s living for it. We jog back to our respective sidelines.
“Defense! Heads up!” I scream, though the sound is swallowed immediately by the cacophony of the stadium. I reach the bench and grab my helmet off the stand. It’s warm from the heater, a momentary comfort from the freezing temperatures. I clamp it on, the plastic shell instantly muffling the chaotic cheers to a dull roar.
I look across the field. The Vipers are lined up for the kickoff. Rex is standing near his bench, helmet on, watching the formation with that same icy veteran stare. He has the ball, now he has to make it count.
“They’re starting aggressive.” Coach Pierson states, always calm, always cool. The man is made of ice.
I nod.
The kicker for the Vipers approaches the ball. The whole stadium goes momentarily silent.
The kicker’s leg swings. BOOM.
The ball launches and the Vipers race downfield, a blur of white and vibrant blue jerseys. Our returnercatches it at the five, takes three hard steps, and then the chaos erupts into violence. The sound of the collision is sharp, a distinct crack even through the padding of my helmet.
My eyes snap immediately to DJ. Defense is on the field. DJ is pacing near the 30-yard line, barking adjustments at his guys. His intensity is a force to be reckoned with.
I take a deep breath. I remind myself to let DJ do this thing. We’ll get the ball and when we do… we’ll take the lead.
I watch the Vipers snap the ball for the first play, the silence of the pre-snap broken by the echoing howl of The Den. I feel it in my blood, and in the words of Garcia. ‘The Hunt has begun.’
The game is an accumulation of impacts, a blur of play calls and collisions. My arm aches, my ribs ache, but the clock ticks slower now, stretched thin by the sheer will of both teams. The noise of The Den is a constant, suffocating blanket of noise.
It’s early in the third, and the Vipers are driving. Their big running back, a human battering ram, just plowed through our line for six yards. They’re at our 15, threatening to go up by two scores. I’m standing on the sideline, helmet off, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs.
Then I see it. DJ. A flash of orange, lower than anyone else. He doesn’t just meet the running back; he explodes into him. The Vipers’ player stumbles, the ball suddenly, airborne. It hangs there for aterrifying fraction of a second, reflecting the stadium lights, before falling into the waiting arms of Cameron.
Turnover!
The stadium erupts. The Den is an animal in its own, a living breathing monster that works to our advantage. The roar of the crowd is deafening. It makes my blood sing. I slam my helmet on. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” I scream, sprinting towards the field. DJ and the defense just gave us a gift. We need to score. And we do. A quick drive, a beautiful throw to Ty and we’re up 14-10.
Late fourth quarter. Tied game, 17-17 with four minutes left on the clock. The Vipers know we want to run it down, to set up the game-winning field goal.
I call the play, the words tasting like a mixture of determination and desperation. “Set! Hut!”
The snap. The pocket holds for a heartbeat, and then it collapses. Silas, that monstrous Defensive End, blows past our left tackle like he wasn’t there. That little voice in my head is screaming ‘SACK!’
I start scrambling right. My eyes scan, frantically. Ty’s covered, but he’s always open when it matters.
Silas is coming. I see him out of periphery. I wrench my arm back, pushing everything into this throw, a bullet, right to Ty. He dives, outstretched, clutching the ball like his life depends on it. He hits the ground with a sickening thud, the Vipers’ safety arriving a microsecond later to absolutely demolish him. But Tyson holds on. He’s down, but he held on.
First down!
I pump my fist, my chest heaving. Tyson gets up slowly, shaking his head, a grim smile on his face. We bought ourselves more time. Two more minutes off the clock, and the game-winning field goal is within range.
