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I’m still laughing when the rest of the offense reaches us, and I let myself get swallowed by helmets knocking against mine and hands slapping my shoulder pads before we head for the sideline.

Coach Quinn is waiting with the tablet in one hand. “Good drive.”

I pull my helmet off as I reach him on the sideline. “They won’t leave King one-on-one again if the safety comes down.”

“Probably not.”

“If they roll help over earlier, Sullivan should keep getting the middle underneath.”

“You know you just scored, right?” He presses the tablet against my chest, forcing me to take it. “Look at the pictures if you need to, then sit down and drink some water before you try to fix a drive that ended in the end zone.”

I open my mouth, but he’s already turned toward the field. I check the pictures anyway, needing to see whether the Armada showed me something I missed even after a drive that ended exactly where it was supposed to. There’s nothing, so I hand the tablet back and sit like Coach told me to, but my attention follows their defensive coaches as they gather the secondary around them.

On the next possession, Jacksonville backs the corners off and keeps both safeties deep, conceding the shorter throws rather than letting King threaten them over the top. Sullivan keeps finding room underneath, and the run game keeps us moving. Every first down comes without the Armada giving us anything that could break the field open.

On second-and-four, King lines up wide to my right with his corner eight yards off, while Sullivan settles into the slot. The ball hits my hands, and Sullivan breaks across the middle into the space the linebacker has already abandoned. He has enough room for the first down before I finish my drop, and my arm starts forward. But King plants his outside foot, faking out the corner with a clear path to the end zone in front of him. I stop my throwing motion and reset toward King, even as Sullivan continues through the open window directly in front of me. The first down is already there, but if I put the ball behind that corner, Jacksonville has to stop sitting on everything underneath.

The right side of the pocket folds before I get the chance. A defender comes around the tackle and drives into my throwing shoulder as my arm comes forward, tearing the ball loose. It hits the turf in front of me, and I lunge after it at the same time a defender dives from the other side. His body covers the ball an instant before our lineman crashes on top of him. The official points toward the Armada when the pile clears.

Sullivan walks toward me while their offense starts onto the field, and his eyes flick once toward the patch of grass he’d crossed through before returning to mine. “I was there.”

I swallow against the bitter taste climbing into my throat. “I know.”

There’s no accusation in his face, leaving me nowhere to put the mistake except where it belongs. He did exactly what the play asked of him, and I watched the first down open in front of me before deciding I needed something bigger.

“Next one.” Sullivan taps the front of my shoulder pad as he turns us toward the sideline.

I follow him off the field with the missed throw still playing behind my eyes, except it isn’t King disappearing into the open grass that I keep seeing. It’s Sullivan waiting for a ball I chose not to give him.

Coach Quinn meets me halfway to the bench with the tablet already in his hand, but he keeps it against his side when I reach for it.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I had Sullivan underneath and held it for King because the corner opened his hips early. I thought I could get the ball behind him before the safety came over.”

I already know what he’s waiting for, and having to say it out loud tastes worse than watching the ball disappear beneath a Jacksonville jersey. “But I already had the first down.”

“You did.” His hand remains wrapped around the tablet. “You don’t need this to know what you saw.”

Before I can answer, our right tackle steps in beside us, still breathing hard from the turnover. “I let the edge get around me too fast. You only had enough time for the first read. I’m supposed to give you more.”

The instinct to push ‌back against him rises immediately. I held the ball and chose the harder throw. The sack-fumble belongs to me more than it belongs to anybody else, and I open my mouth to say exactly that before he cuts me off with a shake of his head.

“I know you held it, but I also know I can give you another beat next time.”

He turns away before I can argue, taking his share of the mistake with him, whether I want to give it to him or not.

“Now you can look,” Coach says before handing me the tablet.

I glance down at the frozen image and find Sullivan exactly where I already know he’ll be before handing it back without asking for another angle.

The Armada use the short field to push toward the red zone, but Tuck gets around the right edge and forces their quarterback to throw before the route develops. The secondary closes the next window, leaving them to settle for three points instead of turning my mistake into seven.

Tuck points at me as he comes off the field, pulling off his helmet. “Stop looking like somebody shot your dog. We got this.”

When our offense takes the field again, Sullivan settles across from me without waiting for an apology. King is already studying their secondary, and the rest of the huddle turns toward me for the call as if giving the ball away changed nothing about what they expect from me.

Jacksonville keeps both safeties deep and protects the outside, so I give them the shorter gains they’re offering. Sullivan finds room underneath, our back fights through contact after a short throw, and the run game keeps the chains moving until we’re closing in on midfield. It works, but every time the Armada give us six yards instead of sixteen, I have to fight the urge to make them pay for it.