Page 106 of Hard to Score

It’s all I can do as the offensive line crumbles for the third time in as many plays. The 49ers have our goddamn number today and it shows.

I’m able to throw the ball and see that it isn’t going to be caught—by either team—milliseconds before I’m tackled to the ground. I hit with a thud and a grunt and then a wince as another guy adds to the pile.

I’ve been given five more minutes. Five precious minutes to show off what else I can do after Hobbs took hit after fucking hit.

But I’m not going to be able to do shit.

Not with our offense folding with every single goddamn play.

And when the clock runs out and the game is over, I’ve accomplished little to fucking nothing other than putting zero points on the board to counter the seven our defense and their shitty coverage all but handed to them.

I glance toward the stands as we walk off the field, the kid in me still looking, still hoping for my dad to be sitting there, proud of me.

I’m an idiot for thinking it. For hoping for it. For even thinking it after the events of the past week.

And yet just once, I want him to be proud of me. Just once I want him to not put himself and what people think of him first, and think about what it would mean for me to see him there—whether I’m sitting the bench or the off chance of me taking the field.

“It was a fucking slaughterhouse out there wasn’t it, man? Goddamn team sucked ass today.”

I glance over to Hobbs and nod. He’s right. Fucking dead-on right, but that’s not shit you say to a team that just got their asses handed to them and are sore and pissed off. That’s not how you lead them.

“It happens. Now we’re going to go into the locker room and after Coach speaks, you’re going to take the floor. You’re going to tell them they fought hard and we came up short, but that’s okay because we have six days to fix our mistakes before the next game.”

“But they didn’t fight hard. They—”

“You’re their leader. Go lead them with positivity.”

Hobbs falters in step momentarily as our eyes meet long enough for me to catch that he understands what I’m saying.

The question is, will he step up to the plate, or is he going to strike out?

“Hey, Bowman.”

I stop at the sound of my name as we enter the tunnel and look up to a couple of guys dressed in Raptors gear with beers in their hands, hanging over the railing.

“You had five fucking minutes and you couldn’t perform. No wonder you’ve been second string your whole career.”

“If he can call it a career,” the other sneers.

“Yeah, loser. Walk away like I read your old man did.”

“Walk the fuck away.”

I keep walking into the tunnel without giving them the time of day.

But their words stick.

They eat at me.

Through our team meeting and the press junket afterward.

When I text Brex and tell her I’m not going to be able to make it to her place tonight.

The entire drive home.

Even when I pull into my driveway to find Brexton’s car parked in the driveway and her sitting on my porch with her legs stretched out and ankles crossed over the other.

I get out of my truck, not sure if I’m pissed or happy to see her. “What are you doing here?” I ask as I cross the short distance from the driveway to the porch.