Page 34 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

There are thirty-two seconds left in the fourth quarter, and we’re down by four.

The stadium clock burns red above the end zone, the rain obscuring the scoreboard. My shoulder pads feel twice as heavy as they did at kickoff, and sweat has turned cold beneath my jersey while the offense gathers near midfield. The student section pounds against the metal bleachers, creating a rhythm I can feel through my cleats. Coaches shout personnel changes along the sideline, but every voice blurs beneath the same urgent fact: one possession, no room for another mistake.

My helmet is clutched in one hand as Greg lines up under center, and every instinct tells me he’s about to abandon the call. I know him well enough to know what’s coming. Some last-second hero move that ignores the play and leaves the rest of us scrambling.

Sure enough, Clyde snaps the ball, and instead of throwing to Darnell—who’s wide open—Greg tucks it and takes off himself.

He’s tackled almost instantly.

I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the scoreboard. 24–28. The Wildcats are still up, and time is bleeding away. Coach Littlestone is shouting, face flushed, while Greg casually adjusts his helmet like we’re not seconds away from blowing this game.

“Come on!” Marcus yells beside me.

Greg jumps up, signaling first down, then turns toward the crowd as if he has done something worth celebrating. Meanwhile, the clock keeps moving.

“Showboating,” I mutter.

“Classic Greg,” Marcus grumbles, turning away. “I can’t watch.”

Coach burns our final timeout with nineteen seconds left.

We line up again. Clyde snaps the ball. Greg fakes the quick throw to Darnell, then slips it to Tristan as he cuts behind the formation.

The defense bites on Darnell.

Tristan turns the corner untouched.

That’s all he needs.

He dives across the goal line with six seconds left. Touchdown.

The stadium erupts.

Our offense races off as the kicking unit takes the field. The extra point splits the uprights, putting us ahead 31-28.

Six seconds remain after the extra point, which means the defense has to finish it. I grab my helmet and run back onto the field, every nerve sharpened.

The Wildcats try a desperate lateral on the return, but Marcus wraps up the ball carrier as the clock reaches zero.

Then it’s real.

We won.

Marcus drops his hands. “Greg’s a genius.”

“Or the luckiest guy alive,” I say under my breath.

“Either way, we’re still undefeated.” Marcus bumps his helmet against mine.

“Yeah.” I nod, but the win feels strangely hollow.

“You hitting the parking lot after-party?” Marcus asks.

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

He gives me a sideways look. “Let me guess, off to see the girl you think none of us know about?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie.