Page 6 of Hard Pass

Second down.

I shake my hands as I step back into position. No bad juju here.

The snap comes.

I drop back, plant, throw . . . and the ball dies short. The receiver lunges for it, barely getting his fingertips on it before it slips through and hits the ground.

Another incompletion. Not unusual for a quarterback to miss a couple throws in a sequence.

But what the fuck? That shit isn’t normal for me.

And it’s not just the miss, it’s the hesitation before it. The split-second where my brain questions what my body already knows how to do.

“Fucking bullshit,” I mutter under my breath as I glance toward the sidelines where our offensive coordinators stand. Peter and Lucas both give me a nod saying you’re fine, but the row of fans behind them flipping me off and booing say otherwise.

Funny how fast the crowd can turn.

I adjust my chin strap and exhale slowly. Stay loose. You got this.

“You’re good,” a teammate says, patting my ass as he runs off the field. “No big.”

But it is big. Quarterbacks don’t get rattled. I don’t get rattled. I can’t. That’s not just something we say, it’s the expectation.

So why is this happening again?

“All good,” Kimble says. His shoulder pad knocks into mine as he steps into the huddle. “Third down. Make it happen.”

I nod, call the play, and step up to the line.

Their defense tightens, energy building. The crowd leans in, their anticipation palpable from where I stand.

Everyone knows what’s coming. We need ten yards and we’re not going to get it by rushing. Not with how tough their defense is.

We’re throwing long.

They know it. I can see it in the way they keep glancing at our receivers. In the way their fingers are twitching. In the way they are so amped up to cross the line of scrimmage.

They’re going to blitz. They have to in order to deny me the time I need for my receiver to get far enough down the field.

“Blue eighty. Blue Eighty. Set.”

The ball snaps. The blitz comes just like I expected, but I adjust, stepping back and trusting my O-line to hold.

Haberman is almost there—downfield—and with enough space for a clean catch. I shift my weight and release the ball.

Good trajectory.

Haberman’s eyes are on it, his hands up ready to receive it.

A blur from the right as their cornerback leaps and snatches the ball about ten feet in front of him.

Interception.

Fuck.

If I could put a sound to the gut punch I feel, it would be the way the crowd exhales all at once. Those breaths being held to cheer, now deflate from their lungs.

For a second everything goes quiet. Not the stadium. Not the crowd. Just . . . me.