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.

“They’re going for the two-point conversion.”

The Eagles wanted to win, hoping to lock up the victory with an extra point. If they got it, the Raptors would have to score a touchdown; there would be no field goal, no tie, no overtime.

Baldwin threw. His favorite receiver caught. Four quick steps.

The crowd went wild.

Scott closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe, played out the rest of the game in his mind. Enough time for one or two more plays before the two-minute warning, then a long drive down the field for a touchdown. No interceptions. No letting the defense stop them.

He jogged onto the field, checked the defensive line-up, settled under center.

Four yards.

Two more.

The whistle blew for the two-minute warning.

Huddled together, Scott twitched and fidgeted as the short break wound down. His body, his brain, his very being needed to be on the field, throwing the ball, scoring those points.

Third down and four still to go.

Scott took the snap, dropped back, let the line in front of him slide as Finn ran the length from left to right. Flicking the ball to his best friend, Finn tucked it under his arm and took the two long strides they needed for the first before taking a hit that laid him out backwards.

He stood, shaking it off, and jogged back to the huddle.

Scott glanced at the clock, still ticking down.

“Get it out of bounds.”

Heads nodded around him.

He called the play.

Incomplete.

They set again.

The running back rushed for two.

They set again.

The Eagles blitzed, the outside linebacker slipping between the Raptors’ tight end and tackle.

His breadth took up the entirety of Scott’s vision. Tucking the ball and twisting to the right, he cradled it close as he hit the ground. It would be a loss, and he took it, as well as the pounding that went with it, knowing if he held on, at least the Eagles wouldn’t get a fumble recovery.

Abby gasped as Scott went to the ground, the massive Eagles linebacker riding him into the turf. He laid there a moment and Abby leapt to her feet, fear icing through her veins.

Her breath sped, but she swallowed back her fear, sinking into the seat beside Dylan and squeezing the hand he automatically slipped into hers.

Then, Scott pushed himself up again, shook his head, and jogged back into the huddle.

“He’s okay.”

Dylan nodded, but his eyes crinkled, and his lips turned down.

She ran her thumb over his cheek. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s fine.”

“Yeah, but now it’s third and...” His eyes flicked over the field. “Long. Really long.”

Abby released his hand and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into her side. “I know. But he’s beaten longer odds than this.”

She wasn’t talking about football, and Dylan understood. He smiled. “Yeah, he has, hasn’t he?”

She kept her arm around him as Scott and the huddle broke apart.

They’d throw.

No one could pick up eighteen yards in a single play without throwing.

And the Eagles were ready.

Scott took the snap. The line held. They had to, at least long enough for the receivers to get into first down range.

Scott dropped back. Waited. Finn and Highcastle broke right, forcing the safety to follow both of them, but then Highcastle dropped his head and poured on the speed, outdistancing the defender as he waited the split second to ensure the corner back would cover Finn.

Scott planted his feet.

The line broke.

His arm reeled back.

The defensive end lurched toward him.

The ball sailed over the Eagles line as it forced its way through the offense. One, lone hand reached up to tip it, but the ball sailed over his outstretched fingers.

The defensive end hit Scott full in the chest, bearing both of them to the ground, but his helmeted head followed the ball.

Abby’s heart leapt into her throat as Scott took the hit—the second in a row—but ignored it. Only the ball mattered as it spiraled through the air.

Abby’s gaze, too, locked on the ball as it hung like an ornament in the sky, floating there for longer than physics could ever allow.

Highcastle’s legs churned.

Beside her, Kelly mumbled, almost praying, “Come on, Jordan. Come on.”

The ball dropped in a long, slow arc.

Scott shoved the defender off him and leapt to his feet.

Seconds ticked past.

Highcastle turned his head, reached long, and Scott’s perfect spiral slid into his outstretched hands.

The stadium exploded as the rookie, his forward momentum barely slowed by the catch, ran the last few yards.

“They did it, they did it!” She couldn’t hear herself think, couldn’t hear the words Dylan chanted in her ear, couldn’t hear the scream coming from Kelly’s throat.

Scott turned and stared straight at them. He pointed.

This one’s for you.

It didn’t matter who he pointed to: Dylan, herself, the fans. He’d done it for all of them, and they’d share his excitement, howling it back to him, a war cry of victory.

Then, Abby’s breath froze in her lungs.

There were still fifty-five seconds left to play.

By the time the Eagles took the field after the extra point and the kickoff, the clock had only ticked down to fifty seconds.

The Eagles began their march down the field, and time itself seemed to bend to their will. No stress, no hurry, no worry, only the slow, methodical game of a team used to winning.

“Come on, defense, come on,” she found herself chanting over and over. “Come on, guys. Come on.”

Beyond Dylan, Kelly spoke the same litany. “Big stop here, boys. Big stop.”

But it didn’t matter. Like tissue paper, Baldwin and his offense ripped through their line again and again. They didn’t want the field goal, the tie, the overtime. They wanted the win.

Finally, the clock caught up with them. Twenty seconds and twenty yards to go. Short pass and out. Sixteen seconds and fifteen yards. Quick rush, timeout called. Nine seconds and eleven yards to go.

The Raptors took in the offensive line, then called their own timeout.

Finally, both sides set again.

Baldwin dropped back, waited. Nowhere to go. He threw it away. Incomplete.

Four seconds.

The Eagles set and the Raptors used their last timeout.

Abby’s hands shook. She couldn’t imagine being Scott, on the sideline, powerless as this played out moment by moment, yard by yard, and knowing he could do nothing but hope.

Baldwin went under center. Dropped back again. Hesitated.

“No,” Abby screamed, seeing the receiver come across the end zone, the defender two steps behind, at the same moment the Eagles’ quarterback did.

Baldwin’s wrist flicked and Abby, throat raw and voice gone, silently screeched in defiance of the imminent defeat.

A flash of silver.

Every fan in the stadium paused as time stood still.

A beat of supernatural silence.

Shock, awe, stunned confusion.

Then, like a tsunami, a wall of sound.

“Interception,” Dylan hollered in Abby’s ear.

“It’s over?” She couldn’t believe it. Waited, sure a flag would come, or a challenge, or...

But Dylan had called the interception correctly. A goal-line interception in the biggest game of the year. And the Raptors were victorious!