Page 25 of The Game You Play (Rixon Raiders 2)

“They’re all over us,” Grady jogged over to me as we walked off field.

He wasn’t wrong but I didn’t want to admit it. Millington had brought their A-game and if we didn’t turn it around soon our 21-18 lead was going to disappear down the drain.

I clapped him on his shoulder before cutting a path toward Merrick, one of our best defensive players. “Make them pay,” I said, pulling his helmet to mine. “I refuse to lose to this bunch of pussies. You feel me?”

“I feel you, QB.” His eyes sparked with hunger.

“Go get ‘em.”

Watching as our defense lined up at the scrimmage, Coach Hasson came up to me. “What the hell is happening out there? They got you spooked or something?”

I couldn’t tell him that Thatcher’s cousin, number twenty-three, was making it virtually impossible for me. He’d talked shit most of the game, pushing me, taunting me, trying to get me to take the bait. I hadn’t... yet, because I knew Coach would rip me a new one. But I wasn’t sure how much more of it I could take.

“Defense will take care of it,” I grunted, watching as the Millington’s QB called the play. He was cocky; a real showman, preferring to keep the ball and run than use his players and pass.

Sure enough, he faked the pass, rolled around to the left and took off downfield... right into the awaiting arms of our cornerback. Their bodies fell hard, the referee rushing over to the huddle already forming around them. But it was our player with the ball.

“Thank fuck.” Clapping my hands, I yanked on my helmet, ready to get back out there.

“This is the one,” Coach yelled, and my eyes flicked to the clock. There was time for one more play; two if we were lucky. We had to score; anything less and we risked giving Millington the chance to flip the game.

Giving Coach a nod, I jogged over to my teammates. “This is it. The play that ends these motherfuckers. Fourteen,” my eyes found Cam across the huddle. “You get to sit this one out. We’re going to run Blue Right Fourteen Reverse.”

“But, Jase…” someone started, but I held up my hand.

“We go with the play, got it?”

“Got it.”

It was a risk—not using Cameron—but you didn’t make miracles happen by playing it safe, and we needed to hit Millington where they least expected it.

“Raiders on three.” I shoved my fist into the center of the huddle, waiting for the other ten fists to follow. “One, two, three.”

Our battle cry rang out around us, the crowd’s roar igniting a firestorm inside me. They believed in us, in me, cheering us on until the bitter end. And we were about to give them the victory they deserved.

That we deserved.

Millington stepped up to the scrimmage, eyes hard, jaws set. They were the predators now, and we were the prey. But first they’d have to catch us.

“Blue Fourteen, Blue Fourteen, hut.” The ball snapped to me and I caught it with nothing more than muscle memory. Dropping back, I extended my arm ready to hand-off the ball to my running back. He barreled past me and took off, as I darted right, ball cradled in my arm, head down. The fake play had given me the time I needed to gain yards, but it didn’t take long for the Tigers’ defense to realize I had the ball. They barreled toward me like a runaway train. I pushed harder, my muscles pinging with exertion, the air whooshing around my helmet as I kept running.

“Go, GO! The entire stadium seemed to yell, propelling me forward. Giving me the strength I needed to make one final push.

Someone reached for me and I leaped to the side, the thud of their body hitting the ground behind me reverberating in my ears.

Fifteen yards… ten… five. I was so close. So fucking close I could already hear the echo of ‘touchdown’ ringing in my ears. But a Millington player appeared out of nowhere slamming straight into me, the ball fumbling out of my hands. “Fuck,” I grunted, the ground beneath me breaking my fall.

“That one’s for Thatcher.” Twenty-three came down hard on me. His elbow—or was it a fist—clipping my ribs with purpose. Once. Twice… Pain splintered through my side.

“Get the fuck off me,” I sneered, pushing him off. He rolled away, clambering to his feet. The second I was upright, I got up in his face, barely aware of the game still going on around us. “What the hell was that?”

Dead Man Walking had the balls to smirk.

“Oh, you think this is funny. You piece of shit.” I lunged for him just as the announcer called, “Touuuuuuchdown.”

“FORD, GET THE HELL OVER HERE NOW,” Coach Hasson barked just as my hand twisted into twenty-three’s jersey.

“Better run, bitch b—”