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The Eagles were in the red zone, pushing hard.
Scott stood, tossed a ball, shook out his arms, bounced on his toes.
The Eagles scored. First blood.
He snapped his helmet on, turned to his offensive line. His throat closed over the rallying speech he’d planned. Coughing once, he let the silence of their small circle spool out, then said, “Now, it’s our turn.”
They had to answer big. Derek Baldwin and the Eagles’ offense had bled over six minutes off the clock with their drive. Scott eyed the defensive lineup, ran through the play in his head, called the snap. He dropped back, and, with a quick flick of his wrist, sent the ball six yards up the middle to Finn.
Jogging to the line, he counted, then handed the ball off, pushing ahead for another three.
Third and one. His eyes flitted over the defense again and something in the pit of his stomach turned over. A sixth sense he’d learned to rely on, to trust. They knew the play. He paused, weighed the risk, then killed the option. His line shifted, automatically lining up for the backup play.
“One, two.” The fullback took the ball and dove forward while Scott twisted away and checked high, trying to fool the Eagles defense. Expecting the throw, they took the bait, and a moment later, the Raptors had the first down.
Finding his rhythm, Scott and the Raptors marched the ball down the field. A quick pass here, a little run there, third and a few. He dropped back deep. Waited, feet planted. The offensive line bought the time he needed and then Scott reeled it back and let go. The football sailed down the field toward Highcastle, two steps ahead of his defender, and slid into his outstretched arms. Head down, running with every ounce of power, Jordan crossed the touchdown line and leapt into the air.
“Asked and answered,” Scott hollered, racing down the field after his receiver. “Asked. And. Answered!”
Thirty-Seven
THE SECONDS PASSED in fits and starts. Each one stretched out into minutes at a time, then condensed and flashed past. They fought and pushed, held the line, defended the end zone.
At half-time, Scott didn’t even have the energy or focus to wonder if Dylan and Abby were enjoying the show. He stripped down, used the bathroom, and gulped a half bottle of Gatorade.
Then, the coaches called the new plays, adjustments to the Eagles on both offense and defense. Back to the field. So much noise. The flash of a million cameras.
Distracted by the crowd, the lights, the sheer exhilaration of playing in the game of his life, Scott lost focus for a moment.
The defense shifted.
Pulling back his arm, Scott loosed the ball, noticing the corner back cutting across the route a moment too late. Even as the ball left his fingertips and sailed over the offensive line, a green jersey leapt into the air, cutting off Finn. The ball slid right into his outstretched hands.
“No.” Scott fisted his hand and beat the air, then dropped his head.
The Eagles had the ball at the forty and he had no one to blame but himself.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the offensive coordinator, Jeff Rigby, told him, but neither of them believed the lie. Scott kicked the grass with his toe, then flopped onto the bench, head in his hands.
“Hey,” Finn nudged his foot. “It happens. Don’t lose it, now.”
Scott sat back. “I know. But it was a stupid...”
“I hear ya.”
“So, let’s get back out there and make it up.”
They did, but it left them trailing as the game devolved into a shoot-out.
The seconds bled away, an interminable countdown. Baldwin, the Eagles’ quarterback, played the head-game to perfection, expertly spooling the clock.
Powerless as the Eagles made their slow but methodical way down the field, Scott sat on the bench and stewed. The Raptor defense never gave up the big plays, but Baldwin, his runners, and his receivers took the field yard by yard, and they hemorrhaged time while they did it.
Jeff sat beside him; tablet strapped to his hand. “Don’t panic, we’re gonna get it back, and even if they go all the way, it’ll be a three-point game.”
Scott understood the subtext:Get the touchdown if you can; but if not, field goal range is enough.
The Eagles scored, then Baldwin lined up under center again. Scott lurched to his feet, horror lodging deep in his gut, as realization rippled through the Raptors’ sideline like the whisper of a discordant violin.