Another four and out. Our running backs weren’t making enough progress.
Denver got the ball to our forty-yard line. It was fourth and inches with a minute left in the half. I clenched my teeth as we waited for Denver’s decision. Would they attempt a fifty-seven-yard field goal or try for a first down?
Their offense came back on the field and lined up.
Holding my breath, I prayed our defense would not jump early. With only two seconds left on the snap clock, Denver called a time-out. Air rushed from my lungs. Coach Brown, our defensive coordinator’s voice, came through my earpiece.
The likelihood of hitting a fifty-seven-yard field goal was statistically a little over fifty percent. However, Denver’s field-goal kicker had hit a sixty-two-yard field goal in game one of the season. Troy and I stood near one another as they snapped the ball.
Our defense rushed.
Denver’s holder fumbled the ball.
Flag—was there a flag on the play?
Malik Johnson, one of our cornerbacks scooped up the ball and took off.
My body tensed as I watched Malik run.
“To the fifty. To the forty. To the thirty.”
I balled my fist, willing Malik to stay in bounds.
“Touchdown, Lexington,” came from the stadium speakers.
Turning, I looked down the bench. The entire team was on their feet, cheering their teammate. As Malik came off the field, he was greeted by back slaps and pats. There was enough time left in the first half to kick the ball to the Broncos.
Our defense held.
However, since we lost the coin toss, our defense would be back on the field as soon as the second half began. Thankfully, it was four and out for Denver to start the second half.
I listened as Drew sent his calls to Fin’s helmet. Two more conservative calls. It was third and four. In my head, I was screaming, “Call a pass play.” I recalled Dad telling me that I was on the sideline to observe—not micromanage and not make calls.
Next, was the call—play fifty-seven.
I looked down at my notes and shook my head.
Why the hell wasn’t Drew letting Fin pass?
The ball was snapped. Fin handed it off to Dijon Ortiz, a running back. The gap closed. The stadium let out a collective groan. I looked up at the jumbotron.
Shit.
I’d been watching the wrong player. Fin had faked to Ortiz, and I totally fell for it.
Fin hadn’t handed off the football; instead, he ran the ball, sliding feet first with a six-yard gain and a first down.
It took all my control not to jump up and down and cheer. Grant would have a fit if that picture was in tomorrow’sLexington Herald. That didn’t mean I tried to subdue my smile. “Good job, Fin,” I said under my breath.
Denver scored a touchdown and a field goal in the fourth quarter. Our defense was exhausted. Playing at this altitude didn’t help, even with a few extra days to acclimate. With five minutes to go, we were down seven to ten. The Coopers’ offense took the field.
After a fair catch, the ball was placed on the Coopers’ twenty-five-yard line.
On the first play, Fin threw a thirty-yard pass to Kylon Lewis, our wide receiver. He’d been wide open. Denver’s defense wasn’t expecting a pass play. Fin called for no-huddle offense, hurrying our team back to the line of scrimmage. The whistles blew and flags flew. Fin had caught the defense with an illegal formation and a five-yard penalty.
We were now in Bronco territory.
I looked up at the clock. There was still a lot of time. A field goal would tie the game. A touchdown would have us ahead. Drew was telling Fin to use clock. The ground game was wearing down our backs as well as our O line.
