Their fans had a reputation for being brutal to visiting teams, and they lived up to it. The noise started the moment we took the field for warm-ups and didn’t let up. By kickoff, the sound was a physical thing—pressing against my helmet, making it hard to hear the play calls.
The first quarter went fine. I caught my first target on a crossing route, picked up eight yards before the safety drove me into the turf. Standard stuff. We scored on our opening drive, and Auburn answered back. By halftime, we were tied fourteen to fourteen.
The second half was when things got rough.
Their secondary had figured out our passing game. The corners started jumping routes, the safeties playing tight over the top. I was getting hit the moment the ball touched my hands—sometimes before. In the third quarter, I took a shot on a deep post that left me seeing stars. Got up slow, shook it off, stayed in.
In the fourth quarter, we were down by three. Two minutes left. We had the ball on their forty-yard line.
The play call came in: slant to me on the right side. Quick timing route—catch the ball in the soft spot of the zone, turn upfield, and get what I could. Simple. I’d run it a hundred times.
I lined up against their corner. He was good—quick feet, physical at the line. I got off clean with a sharp release inside, found the open space, and looked back for the ball.
It was low and behind me. I twisted, reaching back with both hands, eyes on the leather.
Caught it.
And then the safety arrived.
I didn’t see him coming. My focus was on securing the ball, on getting my feet down, on turning upfield. One second, I was making the catch. The next, a helmet drove into my left side and the world tilted sideways. I hit the ground hard, my shoulder taking the full impact, and the breath punched out of me.
Pain exploded through my left side.
I lay there for a second, inventory running on autopilot: fingers moved, toes moved, I could breathe. Nothing broken. Just every nerve in my shoulder screaming, ribs protesting where they’d already been tender.
Hands on my face mask. The team doctor saying my name. I blinked up at him.
“How many fingers?”
“Two.”
“What’s the score?”
“Down by three. Two minutes left.”
“Stand up for me. Slow.”
I got to my feet with help. The crowd noise felt distant, muffled. My shoulder was on fire. I tried to lift my left arm and bit back a sound.
Coach was on the sideline, watching. I saw him debating. I shook my head, pointed at the field.I’m good.
His face said he didn’t believe me, but we were running out of time. He nodded once.
I stayed in.
Two plays later, Marcus hit me on a quick out. I secured the catch, braced for impact, took the hit, and somehow kept my feet. Turned upfield. The end zone was right there. I dove for it as the corner dragged me down, and the ball crossed the plane before my shoulder hit the ground again.
Touchdown. Extra point was good. We won by four.
I barely remembered the celebration. Just knew my shoulder hurt like hell and I had to get through the handshake line and wait out the post-game press before I could get to the training room.
The trainers iced it for twenty minutes while everyone else showered. Told me to keep it iced at the hotel, see our team doctor first thing Monday. Nothing torn, likely just a deep contusion to the shoulder and aggravated ribs. I’d be sore for a few days, but I’d be fine for practice on Tuesday.
I nodded and tried to remember if Tanner had said he’d be home when I got back tomorrow.
The bus rideback was long and uncomfortable.
I couldn’t get my shoulder into any position that didn’t hurt. Ended up slouched against the window, ice pack wedged between my shoulder and the seat back, trying to sleep and failing.
