Page 38

Drake

T he stadium is electric for our third game of the season. We’ve yet to win a game, but here we are in primetime.

Tied game. Fourth quarter. Twenty-three seconds left. Ball on the opposing team’s forty-five. No timeouts.

Lyla—and my parents—are in the owner’s box for this night game. My attempt at reconciliation with my dad, and to show them that I’ve changed. Because I have. I don’t need to be weighed down by guilt or by my past self.

I’m a new man.

Coach Medina’s voice echoes in my head: We don’t need a backyard baller. We need a field general.

I’ve spent the whole game being a field general—staying in the pocket, staying disciplined. But with the seconds counting down, I wonder: what if I can be both?

I jog to the huddle, my heart steady. Not calm—never calm—but focused.

This isn’t about proving myself anymore.

It’s about the fact that I did the hard work and now I need to trust myself.

Trust the parts that I’ve honed over the past few months—and the God-given abilities that even Austin Taylor, in all his greatness, doesn’t have.

“Trips right, Gun Y Jet Motion,” I call the play, making eye contact with J-Rich, who nods. “On one. Let’s finish this thing.”

We break the huddle and the crowd noise swells like a storm. The ball is snapped and my fingers find the laces as I scan the defense. They’re disguising a blitz, trying to rattle me.

I don’t flinch.

I drop back—one, two, three steps. My feet settle. Pressure builds on the edge. I feel it in my periphery like a freight train about to derail the whole play. And a few months ago? I’d have bolted.

But not now.

I stay. I trust my line. I trust the route.

I go through my reads—first option’s covered, second too tight. My third read breaks open across the middle, and I cock my arm to throw—

And that’s when I see it.

The linebacker. Reading my eyes. Jumping the route.

If I throw now, it’s a pick-six. Game over.

My body reacts before my brain can catch up. I tuck the ball and roll out—away from pressure, away from danger—eyes downfield, feet churning like a man possessed.

But I don’t run blindly.

I see J-Rich shake loose—deep, back corner. It’s a risk. A tight window. A throw that says I know who I am and I know what I can do.

I plant—off balance, sprinting right—and launch.

The ball cuts through the night like it knows where it’s going. Spiraling. Perfect.

J-Rich leaps at the edge of the end zone—two defenders closing in—snags it in midair, drags his toes, crashes to the turf.

The stadium explodes.

Hands fly up—the ref’s signal.

Touchdown.

We’ve won.

I drop to a knee, chest heaving, joy crashing over me in waves.

I stayed when I needed to stay.

Moved when I needed to move.

And I didn’t lose myself in the process.

Discipline didn’t erase my instinct. It sharpened it. And for the first time in a long time—I’m proud of the player I’ve become. And the man I’m still becoming.