the air and drops into Jamail’s waiting arms. He never misses a step as he flies down the field and into the end zone.
Touchdown.
I take off down the field to meet Jamail as he jogs back to the sideline. I grab the back of his helmet and knock mine to his.
“Good to have you back, Bullet.” He grins around his mouthpiece.
“Thanks, man.” That piece of me that’s all about football slips into place, but for the first time in my life the space feels too small and constricting.
We score twice more in the third quarter, but unfortunately, Seattle scores as well. We hold them to a field goal in the fourth quarter, and we put seven more points on the board.
By the time the Thunder receives the kickoff with two minutes left in the game we’re all beat to hell, bleeding and sweating like someone dropped us in the Sahara. And even though we’re down by seven points, we’re not giving up. Three plays, that’s all I need to tie this game.
We march the ball down the field one completed pass at a time. My arm’s screaming, but I’m in the zone, which makes the pain easier to ignore.
It’s third and eight on the ten-yard line. Perspiration stings my eyes as we take our positions on the line of scrimmage. I call the play and take the snap. My feet shuffle in the pocket, and I look downfield, but nobody’s open. I don’t panic, I just keep looking. Then I see an open route to the end zone on the right side of the field. I tuck the ball and run like the hounds of hell are after me. I’m almost at the sideline by the time I get to the goal line. I dive, holding the ball in bounds while my body goes out of bounds, but the ball breaks the plane of the goal line. Touchdown. All the air is jolted from my lungs when I land hard on my back. I don’t care because we’re one point away from tying this game.
Some of offense celebrates in the end zone, while a couple of them pull me from the ground, slapping me on the helmet in congratulations. There are twenty-five seconds left on the clock. A field goal from Martinez will tie the game. Then we go into overtime and pray we win the coin toss and get the first possession.
I turn to head back to the bench when I see Coach and McKay motioning for the offense to stay on the field. Holy hell, we’re going for two points. Shit, I haven’t practiced this play but a couple of times this week.
Suck it up, King, and do your job.
We huddle up, and I meet the eyes of each of my teammates. “Okay, ladies, this is why they pay us stupid money. Let’s make this happen. Omaha twenty-eight on two.” We clap our hands. “Break.”
The offensive moves into position, and I line up behind Guthrie. “I promise to make it good for you, sweetheart.” My hands go between his big, sweaty thighs.
“Fuck you,” he laughs. “And call the damn play.”
“OMAHA TWENTY-EIGHT, OMAHA TWENTY-EIGHT, SET, HUT!” I drop back, and everything switches to slow motion in my brain. The rhythm of my breathing and beat of my heart are the only sounds I hear. It’s like I can see everything at once. I look to my left, to my right. No one’s open. My heart rate stutters, but I will it back to a normal tempo. This play isn’t over, and I’m not down. I stay in the pocket and see Jamail directly under the goalpost. I throw with the precision of a surgeon. As soon as the pigskin leaves my hands, everything snaps back into real time, and the thunderous roar of the crowd fills my ears. The ball hits him square in the numbers on his jersey. He wraps his big arms around it and holds it to his chest.
Game over.
Thunder wins.
It’s complete pandemonium in the stadium. The crowd is chanting my name. Guthrie wraps me in a bear hug that nearly breaks my ribs. “That’s how Cash Fucking King gets it done!” he yells in my ear. Then he and Bartle, another lineman, lift me into the air. I see the other receivers are doing the same to Jamail. They bring him close, and we clasp hands for a moment.
The cheers and accolades from my team, and being carried to the sideline while on their shoulders,