Kill
Sounds right for him then.
Coach calls us back and I slide my thumbs across the screen one last time.
Me
2nd half. GTG.
I toss my phone back into my bag and close my locker, returning my focus to the game ahead. Even though I’d like nothing more than to spend my time thinking about the beautiful woman who allowed me to be in her presence, I have a job to do.
The second half settles into place the way a game should, not with chaos, but with rhythm. The protection tightens first. I feel it before I consciously register it, my pocket holding just a fraction longer, giving me that extra heartbeat to scan the field. Orry adjusts his stance after the early penalty, his feet anchored, and shoulders square. Bennett seals the edge cleanly and any pressure that may have rattled us in the beginning of the first half disappears, replaced by something quieter and more controlled.
Just the way I like it.
Jake hits his break exactly where I expect him and Boone pushes deeper into coverage, forcing the safety to commit earlier than he wants. The defense shifts, trying to anticipate us, but we’re already one step ahead. Every adjustment they make is one we talked through on the sideline, one we walked through in film study during a long Thursday night.
Every play they make is predictable, manageable and fixable. Midway through the fourth quarter, Omaha scores but we still have the lead by seven points. I’m not sweating, but I will be if they score again.
Our maneuvers aren’t flashy, no miracle plays or highlight reel moments, just steady execution, one first down stacked on top of another until the end zone feels inevitable. The crowd noise shifts immediately. Omaha fans have been loud and relentless all afternoon, but I can literally feel their emotions turn to restlessness. The energy changes from celebration to pressure, and the sound becomes heavier, sharper.
This is where most teams tighten up.
This is where mistakes happen.
But this is where I feel most at home.
The clock bleeds seconds like slow rain, each tick louder than the last. The scoreboard glows over the field, and for a moment the entire stadium seems to hold its breath, Omaha’s fans praying their team can tie the score and throw us into overtime. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen. I jog into the huddle, helmet pressing tight against my temples, every set of eyes landing on me.
They’re waiting for calm and that’s what I give them. “Trips right,” I say evenly, voice cutting through the noise without needing volume. “Stick to the plan.”
At the line, the defense shifts late, trying to disguise coverage. I slow everything down—a small hand signal, a slight change to the cadence—letting the chaos swirl around me without stepping into it. The snap hits my hands cleanly and the pocket forms. I take one step, then another, scanning left to right.
Jake’s covered.
Boone finds a seam.
I release the ball before the window fully opens, trusting timing more than sight.
It hits Boone’s hands and the sideline erupts once again.
First down.
We make two more plays, another short completion, and acontrolled run from Kyler that forces Omaha to burn their last timeout and then it’s over. We kneel out the clock until the final whistle sounds.
Portland wins fourteen to seven.
The stadium noise recedes like a wave pulling back from sand as I wipe sweat from my forehead with my forearm, leaving a dark streak on my sleeve. Three steps from the tunnel, I spot the teal streak in our team mascot, Riptide’s, oversized wolf head bobbing beside a cluster of kids in matching Rush jerseys.
“Shepherd! Shepherd!” a small voice cuts through the ambient noise.
I break from the line, Orry and Boone following. Three boys, all under ten if I had to guess, bounce on their toes, elbowing each other. The middle one clutches a Sharpie so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
“You guys came all the way from Portland?” I ask, peeling my jersey over my shoulder pads.
“We moved to Omaha last year,” their dad says. “They wouldn’t take off their Rush gear even when the neighbors threatened to egg our house.”
The middle brother’s eyes widen as I press the marker to my jersey and then hand it to him. His fingers trace the signature, mouth slightly open.
