I agreed with the voice in my helmet. This was too far for a field goal. Pratt wanted another pass. This time we huddled, and I called the pass play, a play option. “Gun, right, tight, trey right, jet sweep, option, for Reid.”
“For Reid.”
Our 11-personnel offense was designed to create matchup problems for the defense. I set the cadence. “Set. Hut!”
Lewis ran go route. Patel ran corner route. JD ran dig route, and Treshawn ran out route. I read the progressions. The secondary defense was covering the players farther down the field. I threw the ball to JD. As he caught it near the forty-yard line, I was laid out by one of their tackles—or maybe it was a Greyhound bus.
I stared up at the dome for a moment, trying to catch my breath. For a moment, it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. There were even stars twinkling up above.
“Fin, you all right?” Jamir asked as he helped me to my feet.
I grimaced as the shrill sound of whistles filled the air. “Fuck, yeah, I’m good.”
“The call’s on them,” Jamir said.
“Graham,” came from my helmet. “You’re out.”
Out?
What the fuck?
I attempted deep breaths as I made my way to the sideline. As Simpson went out, I heard the announcement.
“Roughing the passer,” came from the speakers. “Defense, number 77, fifteen-yard penalty. Automatic first down.”
“I’m fine,” I screamed at Pratt. I turned to Tilson. “Why am I out?”
Garcia grabbed my arm. “You took a hard hit. You’re going in the blue tent.”
“Fuck, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t listening.
Chapter 27
Vee
My play call list nearly shredded with my intense grip as Coopers’ training staff helped Fin into the blue tent. In my ear, Drew was calling the play to Simpson. On the field, our players were lined up in split formation at the thirty-two-yard line. Simpson had the ball. He handed it off to Morgan, who dodged defensive players and made it to the twenty-six-yard line.
While my attention was on the field, I couldn’t help watching the blue tent. The flap was still closed. “Please be okay,” I said softly.
Back on the field, Simpson had the ball. He was dancing behind the line of scrimmage. The ball was in the air. Patel caught the ball while dragging his toes before being pushed out of bounds. Whistles blew.
The tension in my neck reminded me of Fin’s stress-relief methods from last night.
“Unnecessary roughness. Defense. Number 94. Fifteen-yard penalty. The ball will be placed at the sixteen-yard line. First down.”
The crowd inside Allegiant Stadium booed loudly, unhappy with the call. I watched the jumbotron for the replay. Patel’s feet were both down and in bounds when number 94 plowed him to the ground out of bounds.
Clenching my jaw, I tried not to show my disgust. The Raiders were playing dirty. For once, I was happy to hear the whistles.
It took six more plays to score.
Touchdown Coopers.
When I turned, I saw Fin sitting on the bench and let out a relieved breath. If he was not in the locker room, that meant he didn’t require further medical attention. Hopefully, he’d be put back in the game after the Raiders’ possession. I looked up at the clock. Our time of possession was over eight minutes. And we came out of it with seven points.
I clapped as our defense took the field.
