Page 112 of Hard to Score

I’m amped.

I glance up to the big screen on the opposite end of the stadium from where I stand in the huddle and know we’ve got this.

The win.

And a berth to the playoffs.

The Panthers have been battling toe to toe with us all goddamn day. We get points, they get points. We turn it over, they turn it over.

Like a damn seesaw.

It seems this game will be won by whoever is the last to score.

And time is running out.

I glance over to Lonnie on the sidelines and get a nod, his words from minutes ago back in my head.

“What are you thinking?” I ask Lonnie, who’s standing beside me with his arms crossed, that heart attack waiting to happen kept at bay for a little while longer.

“I’m thinking they are wearing us down. They know our plays. They’ve got Donnell’s number,” he says of one of my offensive linemen. Pretty soon he’s not going to be able to stop them. “If that happens, you better hold tight to that fucking ball, because he’s a goddamn tank when he hits you.”

“He won’t hit me.”

“Funny,” he murmurs as the crowd erupts when Grandy sacks the Panthers’ quarterback in the backfield. “But that just helped some.”

“So? What’s the game plan?” I ask.

“I trust you to figure it out.”

“What?” I ask, head whipping his way and away from our special teams running on the field to receive the punt.

“I’m going to leave it up to you. You know the plays. You’re reading their field position well. They’ve recognized what we’re going to do a few times and it’s too late to change, so I’m leaving it up to you.”

If that’s not the ultimate show of confidence in my abilities, I don’t know what is. I stare at him, at the man who has denied me time and again but who is now telling me he trusts me, and it takes me a second to fully grasp it.

“Showtime, Bowman,” Lonnie says and smacks my ass as special teams come off the field.

“We’ve got a minute left. A lot can happen in that minute,” I say, meeting each one of my guys’ eyes.

“We need to score, man. They’re killing us in the backfield,” Muncy says, looking frustrated.

“I know. I see it.” I find Fulton’s eyes and say, “Texas Fifteen.”

His eyes light up. “No shit?” he asks as the guys start smiling. They know the Panthers are expecting a run. It’s been our pattern all damn night and now that I’m in charge, and not the guys up in the booth making the call, I’m going to play to what I know. To what I trust. My instincts and my arm.

“No shit,” I say.

His smile spreads. “Copy that.”

“Let’s do this, boys!” I shout and then say, “Break.”

We clap to break the huddle with a glance at the clock and a quick prayer to the football gods.

This is my chance.

My proof that I can start and finish a game strong. That I’m worthy of a starting position.

“Texas Fifteen. Texas Fifteen. Hut. Hut. Hut.”