I find the edge, the place where thought ends and instinct takes over.No more wondering if she’ll ever forgive me.No more replaying the look in her eyes when she told me to fuck off.I silence the noise.Strip it down to muscle, rage, and motion.I play pissed.
First tackle, I drive the bastard back five yards.Next, I hit so hard he hits the ground with a thud.I don’t check if he’s okay.I don’t stop moving, don’t even flinch when someone’s elbow slams my ribs.I want them flattened.Every single one of them.I want their quarterback dragging himself off the turf by his fingernails.
It’s hot under the lights.Sweat burns in my eyes.My throat’s raw from shouting calls, from screaming at the line to hold.My knuckles are busted, skin torn over bone, blood seeping into the tape.I don’t give a single shit.
The crowd goes wild.They roar every time I hit, every time I move, every time I leave another guy gasping for air.
By halftime, we’re up by seven.The scoreboard’s glowing, the crowd’s buzzing, but my chest’s still heaving from the last hit.I jog to the sideline, drenched in sweat, jersey clinging, my ribs aching with every breath.I grab a bottle, chug the water—and spit it straight out.Tastes like metal.Like blood and heat and something else I can’t name.
Coach is already barking plays, clipboard in hand, spit flying.The boys nod, fired up, shoving each other with that rough love that only comes when you’re bleeding for the same damn goal.I nod too because I want this—bad.Not just for the team, not for the win, but for me.For everything I haven’t said and everything I’ve lost.
I charge the line, read the play, dive for the tackle, and get completely leveled.
Air rushes from my lungs.I hit the ground hard, pain flashing through my side.For a moment, all I hear is ringing.Everything tilts.Players surround me, helmets and voices.
“You good?”someone asks.
I take a breath in.Another one follows.My chest burns, fire-hot, but I nod anyway.“Yeah,” I rasp.“I’m good.”
Then I’m on my feet.
The crowd loses its mind.Screaming.Roaring.Metal bleachers shake under the intensity.I barely notice any of it over the pounding in my ears.It sounds thunderous inside my skull.Every breath is raw, every rib protesting where the hit landed.
Next play, I line up again without hesitation.
It doesn’t matter that I was face-first in the turf twenty seconds ago, lungs locked, vision filled with white.That moment is already gone.I leave it there with the dirt and the pain.
I burst off the line, driven by anger, desire, and everything I refuse to surrender.
I'm already fired up for the win.
Fourth quarter.Ten seconds remaining.One last chance for the opposition to take the lead.
The stadium’s lost its mind.Coach is shouting himself hoarse on the sideline.The boys are yelling across the line, hyped and feral.Parents are on their feet, fists punching the air.The bleachers are shaking, metal rattling under the weight of too many bodies and too much hope.
I set my stance and drop low.Every muscle tightens.I wait.
The ball snaps.
And I go.
Hard and fast, fueled by muscle, rage, and every ounce of frustration I’ve been carrying all season.I punch through the line, meeting the runner head-on.Shoulder to chest.Pads collide.The sound is brutal and clear.Bodies slam to the ground and stay there.
The whistle shrieks.
Game over.
We held the line.
We fucking won.
The field becomes chaotic.The moment the whistle blows, the crowd erupts like a wave, crashing over the turf.Bodies push in from every direction.Helmets come off, boys scream, fists punch the air, and cleats stomp on the dirt.Sweat streams down my face.My chest still heaves from the last play.Every nerve is on fire.I’m not sure if I’m about to throw up or scream.
I turn and scan the crowd.Noah’s in the bleachers, his grin wide and proud.Aubrey’s got her arms around Red.They’re jumping, shouting, losing their minds with the rest of the school.
But that’s not what causes my stomach to flip.
It’s the man in the black coat standing right behind Coach, frozen like a damn statue while the world erupts around him.
