A few guys snorted.
“Just play fast, Sunshine. Pretend you’re tryna impress your uncle again,” Marcus drawled from across the room,
A muscle in my jaw twitched and I flexed my hand, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Before I could answer, Coach stepped between us, his tone clipped.
“He doesn’t need to impress me. He earned his snaps. Focus on your own job, Marcus.”
The room fell silent and my chest tightened. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed someone to say it out loud.
The first defensive snap of the game always felt like sticking a fork into a live socket. It was a thrilling combination of anticipation and adrenaline, with the sense ofanything could happen.
But tonight, the buzz was hotter than usual. My chest had gone tight and the helmet, which I still hadn’t got used to, felt too restrictive.
It was a playoff game with packed stands; the kind of night when a player either rose or folded.
I dropped into position just inside the box, my cleats grinding into turf still giving off a faint sun-warmed scent. My breath fogged briefly before dissipating into the humid night air.
The quarterback barked out the cadence and I bounced on my toes.
Left foot … right foot … feel the line shift … read the hips…
The snap cracked through the air. Their running back took the handoff, feet flashing wide and the whole defense flowed left in a wave of bodies and noise.
But something was wrong.
The quarterback hesitated ever so slightly as he turned, leaving the angle of his shoulders too open and pulling the ball tight across his body like a slingshot.
This wasn’t a sweep, it was a counter.
Pure instinct propelled me forward faster than any football playbook ever could. Before the guard had even pivoted, I shot through the inside gap.
The world narrowed to a tunnel of sound — cleats scraping behind me; the crowd roaring distantly; and my own breath rasping loudly inside my helmet.
The running back reappeared right in front of me, his eyes wide and I pounced on this opening. I rammed my shoulder into his, and he let out a grunt as our bodies collided and his breath was forced out of him.
Then both of us were in the air, legs tangling. The turf slammed up at us in a shockwave, and somewhere above the ringing in my ears I heard the crowd suck in a collective gasp.
Their second and short became third and long.
But for me it was nothing short but a triumph. My whole chest vibrated as though I’d swallowed a thunderclap.
“Hell yeah, Sunshine!” someone yelled as hands smacked my helmet.
“Where the hell’dthatcome from?”
“That’s how you fuckinghit!”
I staggered to my feet, my heart pounding and my boots slipping slightly on the churned earth, as the boys crowded around me. For once, when they clapped my pads or grabbed my face mask in excitement, I didn’t feel like the team’s mascot.
For once, I wasn’t just the coach’s nephew or some foreign charity case the team tolerated.
I felt like a player, a real one.
When Coach finally called the seam route for me later, my stomach flipped. He’d hesitated for weeks, and I was painfully aware of the reason why. He didn’t think I couldread coverage confidently, didn’t think I could make the catch under pressure.
But here was my shot, and I was sure as fuck going to make use of it.
I lined up, my fingers flexing against my thighs, and my eyes scanning the defense. Reece shot me a grin from the slot.
