Mr. Fiancé(124)

The horn goes off, and the team runs back into the locker room. After his few words to the team as a whole, Coach Bainridge comes over to me. "You ready to go in?"

"Whatever you need, Coach."

He nods, then drops his bomb. "I want you on special teams too. They're burning us on kickoff and punt coverage, and I need someone who can form a blocking wall for the runners. Can you do it?"

Special teams. The suicide squad that is normally made up of second-stringers or crazy dudes who don't care about their health. If running routes and getting tackled is like getting into a minor car accident, special teams is like a car accident on the freeway going high-speed.

"Get me out there. Whatever you need."

Coach nods again, and the trembles start. I haven't felt the trembles since high school, and I know what they are. I'm not scared. I just want to get on the field, to play and fight and win.



One minute left. No more timeouts. We're down seventeen-thirteen. We need a touchdown, and it's seventy-two yards away.

"All right, guys, this is where we make ourselves famous," Tyler jokes in the huddle, looking around. I look around, too, and see my teammates. They're exhausted, beaten up, and just a little way from crumbling. We need to get fired up, and Tyler's trying.

He calls a run play, risky at this point in the game, but the Silverados aren’t expecting it either. If we toss it to the outside, we have a chance to gain yards and still get out of bounds.

I pop the defensive end before releasing to the outside. I see the defensive back coming on a collision course with our running back. I lower my shoulder and crash into his side, my body already aching from blocking on punts and kickoffs, but I don't care. The guy is blasted off his feet, and as I go tumbling down with him, I see our runner scamper for eight yards before running out of bounds, stopping the clock.

"All right, all right!" Tyler yells when we reform the huddle. Forty-nine seconds left. "That's what the fuck I'm talking about!"

"Tyler," I groan, and I'm feeling something grating in my elbow. I don't care. They'll have to chop off my arm to get me out of the game right now. "Let's close it out. I don't have two minutes left in me."

Tyler pulls me up and looks me in the eye. "Think you can do it, Touchdown? Or do we get Carlson in here?"

I nod. "I got this. After this, though, nobody calls me Touchdown.”

"You catch the ball, and I'll make sure of it. Don’t fuck this up, Duncan.”

"See you in the end zone."

We line up, and I can see the defense running through their schemes, adjusting to our formation.

I release quickly, praying that our right tackle can give Tyler enough time to get the ball off. I cut out on a flag route, turning my head to see the pass already in the air. Tyler's let it go just a little long, and I urge my tired legs to go just a bit faster, to cover the space a bit quicker.

It's on my fingertips, and I pull it in, knowing that my hectic pace sent me off-route. I'm in the defensive back’s zone now, and he's closing from behind fast, the free safety coming up fast on my left. I juke, spinning off one guy to feel the other hit me.

I bounce, refusing to go down. No fucking way, not with everything on the line. I run, as hard as I can, my arm screaming from that last hit but my fingers refusing to let go of the ball. I've been sitting on my ass nearly all week, and I'm tired, forgetting how much football hurts.

The goal line is only ten yards away . . . eight . . . five . . . two . . .

Someone hits me from behind, and I reach out with everything I have, praying I'm close enough. I can only hope the ball doesn't tumble from my fingers as I reach, pulling my knees up to prevent the ball from being blown down from an early touch.

I hit the ground and hear a whistle. The wind's been knocked out of me. I can't do much more than move my head, which is jammed into the turf enough that I can barely breathe. I turn my head to the side to see the side judge standing, his arms over his head signaling the touchdown, highlighted against the bright glare of the stadium lights and the black of the night sky beyond. It's the best touchdown I've ever scored, even if it's not the prettiest.

Twenty-four seconds left, and we're up, nineteen to seventeen. Someone pulls me to my feet, and I see it's Tyler, who's grinning. "How's it feel, hero?"

I look around, seeing the stadium still exploding in cheers, and my chest is heaving, I'm so winded. I hope I'm in better shape next game, or I'll die by the third quarter. "I need some fucking Gatorade."

Tyler pounds me on the back, laughing. "Done. And then?"

"I want to call Carrie."





Chapter 12





Carrie





I wake up on Sunday, and I'm feeling good. I'd caught the game on television, and I have to admit that I cheered when Duncan caught his touchdown pass.