I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. He’s right and we both know it.
Our defense holds Kansas City to a three-and-out, and suddenly it’s time. I pull my helmet on, tightening the chinstrap as I jog onto the field. The crowd noise swells around me, but I filter it out, focusing only on the task at hand. Eleven men against eleven men. Move the ball. Score points. Win the game.
Simple.
I settle into the huddle, calling the first play with practiced authority. “Strong right, Z-cross on two. Ready…BREAK!”
The huddle breaks and I settle under center, scanning the defense. Kansas City’s showing a blitz, which is exactly what we expected. I make the protection call, shifting our blocking scheme, my mind crystal clear now and laser-focused on the task at hand.
“Omaha! Omaha! Set…hut, HUT!”
The ball snaps into my hands and everything narrows to pure instinct. The weight of the ball, the timing of the routes, the pressure coming from my blind side. I hit my third step, plant, and fire a bullet to Jake cutting across the middle. He snags it cleanly and turns up field for a twelve-yard gain.
First down.
Let’s fucking go!
The crowd roars its approval, but I’m already focused on the next play. We establish a rhythm quickly. Short passes and a few runs to keep the defense honest, methodically moving up field.I’m in the zone, reading coverages, adjusting at the line. This is what I do. This is what I excel at.
This is who I am.
Between plays, my eyes drift to Section 112. They’re just quick glances, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention. Each time I see her—leaning forward in her seat, eyes tracking my every move—something in my chest tightens.
“Focus, Haynes,” I mutter to myself as I call the next play. We’re in the red zone now, eight yards from the end zone. Third down. The perfect time for the play we’ve been setting up all drive.
I approach the line, scanning Kansas City’s defense. They’re showing exactly what I want to see.
I bite back a smile and then reel in my emotions before calling the next play. “Blue eighty! Blue eighty! SET! HUT!”
The ball snaps into my hands. I drop back three steps, eyes downfield, watching the play develop exactly as designed. The safety bites on Boone’s inside, leaving the corner wide open. I step into the throw, releasing a perfect spiral that drops right into Boone’s waiting hands in the back corner of the end zone.
Touchdown!
The stadium erupts and I pump my fist, jogging toward the sideline as my teammates mob Boone in celebration. Coach gives me a nod as I pass. It’s the closest thing to approval he ever shows during a game.
“Nice read,” he says gruffly.
I look toward the stands again, unable to help myself, and find Sutton on her feet, cheering. She’s not screaming like the other fans, but her eyes are locked on me, and even from this distance, I can see a smile on her face. That smile is better than the roar of the entire stadium.
I want so badly to motion to her that that touchdown was for her. That I’m out here today playing hard for her. I mean,yeah, I know this is my job, but the fact she showed up to watch me play today means more to me than she’ll ever know and I want to give her the best game I can play. I know she doesn’t want all the attention on her, though, so I keep my hands to myself and try my hardest not to make the day awkward for her.
When we’re finally in the fourth quarter, the game is tied at fourteen. Our defense forces another punt and I’m back on my feet, helmet in hand, ready to go again. This time I keep my eyes on the field, on my teammates, and on the opposing defense. I can feel Sutton’s presence in the stadium like a physical pull, but I resist looking up.
“Same intensity, same execution,” I tell the huddle as we gather together. “Let’s bag this up and go home, gentlemen.”
We march down the field again, mixing runs with short, high-percentage passes that keep the chains moving. The crowd is with us every step, that electric energy feeding into our momentum. We’re firing on all cylinders now, the offensive line giving me clean pockets, receivers finding the seams in coverage, running backs hitting the holes with authority. This is our game to lose.
The ball is on their forty-two when I step up to the line, flexing my fingers once before settling them under center. The turf is solid beneath my cleats, the familiar grit grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.
“Blue eighty… blue eighty…” My voice cuts clean through the noise, steady and practiced. The line shifts on command, helmets dipping, bodies adjusting. I scan the defense, watching the way they’re set. A linebacker creeping a little too far left, a safety hanging back like he’s waiting for me to make the first mistake. I clock the coverage and do the math.
A run would be safer.
Coach would want to be safe.
But I don’t.
Because safe doesn’t win this game.
