Once Upon A Half-Time 1(100)

“If I get us two, will you stop filling my car with popcorn?”

“Gotta impress me first, Charming.”

The whistles blew. We huddled up—the team silent, panting, and sweating. Time ticked down in the most important game of our season. The league had smacked us hard, taking away draft choices and investigating the coaches. But this game—this Monday night in front of the entire country?

This was how we’d show the world the Rivets weren’t cheaters.

We’d prove we were the best team on the field.

Jack called the play, and we lined up. My role was deceptive. We showed run. I went in motion, crossing behind the line and shifting so we were heavy on the right side.

Jack snapped the ball, and I broke from the block, bursting up the field.

I counted the seconds in my head.

Three. Two. One.

I hooked back. The ball threaded directly into my arms. I snatched the fucker out of the air and sprinted.

A corner dove at me. I spun.

The safety leapt in my path. Fucking child’s play.

I wove to the left, tip-toed against the sideline, and cut to the middle, dodging the other safety and breaking free into the open field.

No one could stop me. I crashed into the end zone at full-speed, ducking away from a defender as the stadium turned hysterical—screaming, cheering, stomping their feet.

I slowed before colliding with the one woman aiming her camera. Elle positioned herself in the perfect spot—as if she knew exactly where the ball was coming, how I’d run it, and where I’d end up.

And maybe she did know.

She was quick to dodge me, and her beautiful smile was greater than any six points I’d ever scored in my life.

I tossed her the ball. She juggled it with her camera.

“That’s for Bast!” I shouted at her.

“Where’s mine?”

“It’s coming, Red! You wait right there.”

We kicked the extra-point, and I hauled Jack with me to confront a pacing Cole Hawthorne, staring at the field with that crazed blood-lust that made me glad he was on our team.

I pointed at Cole, regretting it as he stared, ready to snap my finger off. Not the time to piss off The Beast.

“Stop them,” I said. “Get that ball for us.”

“The fuck you think I’m doing out there, rookie?”

“I’m gonna win this fucking game.” I forced Cole to look me in the eye. “Get us the ball back!”

Talking like that would probably end with a snapped neck, but Cole nodded.

“Win this game.” He put his helmet on. “I’ll bring you their receiver’s head, but you gotta put the ball in the end zone.”

Jack thrived on the enthusiasm. He had me follow him on the sidelines, rushing lineman to lineman, receiver to receiver, pumping them up, getting them ready.

“We’re gonna get one set of downs,” he said. “This is your show, Charming. You be my right-fucking-hand.”

“Ain’t nothing to it,” I said. “We got this.”

True to his word, Cole pummeled a receiver on third down. He dropped the ball, and the Tigers punted.

Two minutes remaining.

One time-out left.

We could do it.

But the first snap was botched when our center tumbled backwards. The whistle blew almost immediately as Jack fell under our own linemen and two defensive ends. He clutched his ankle but waved away the trainers before they rushed to the field.

Too late.

The referees charged our last time-out. Jack lurched up, limping behind the line as he walked off the pain and called the next play in the huddle.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Not your problem.” Jack pointed to the clock. “We have sixty seconds to go sixty yards. Worry about that.”

But the play call wasn’t for me. I shook my head.

“I want the ball!”

Jack ignored me. “Taking it down the sideline first. Isaac’s got this one.”

We lined up. The snap was quick, and I did my block. We got the ten yards, but no more. Isaac was pushed out at the fifty. It stopped the clock, but the Tigers weren’t giving up the big yardage.

The next call was a timing pattern, a quick drop and spiral over the middle twenty yards down the field. Jack completed the pass to Troy, but we lost time running down the field for the spike.

Twenty-five seconds left on the thirty. Second down.

I beat my chest in the huddle. “Give it to me, Jack. I’ll get open.”

“Shut your mouth, rookie. One more shot to get closer.”

He called the play.

It wasn’t gonna work. I knew it. I think he knew it too. But the radio in his helmet ordered another pass to a receiver.

I lined up, the ball snapped, and Jack dropped back to throw. Isaac grabbed it, but he wasn’t near the sidelines.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I bolted to the line, but the team was slow. Jack snapped it on the fifteen and stopped the clock.