My shoulders roll as I walk off the field and wait for Coach.
“What the hell, McQueen? Why are you forcing the ball downfield? We want first downs, not touchdowns. Play my game, not yours.”
Alright, alright. “Yes, sir.”
The crowd erupts as LSU scores on our defense on a trick play.
Our offense takes a nosedive. Not one Waylon player can catch my passes, and running the ball is getting us nowhere. It’s third and long when I call a short, safe pass. The ball snaps and the LSU defenders blitz me. A hand grabs my jersey from behind and yanks me down. I double over backward and slam into the ground.
“I’ll be here all day. All day!” the LSU player yells in my face.
“You alright? You landed on your leg,” Sawyer says as we approach the sideline.
He’s right, and my knee hurts with each step I take, but a player knows the difference between being injured and hurt. I’m fine.
Play by play, I pace the sidelines as our defense starts to struggle. Tension fills the stadium as LSU marches down the field. We grow tight-lipped on the bench, and shoulders sag as I try to rouse them, popping helmets and slapping backs.
LSU scores another touchdown.
Sawyer grimaces. “Our turn, man. Let’s do this.”
I lead the offense to the line and LSU shifts, switching and adjusting fast. I inhale a deep breath, easing it out through my mouth guard.
“Hike!”
The right defensive end from LSU beats my lineman and, shoves him into my face. Rolling out behind him, I see clear grass and run for the first down, but a hit from behind makes me stumble. Spinning out of the tackle, I grunt as I’m hit by a linebacker from the opposite side and the ball slips out of my hand. It floats in the air for what seems like eternity before another LSU player catches it at a full run.
A defender crashes on top of me. Then another. The crowd roars and I close my eyes. Touchdown. I’ve fumbled the ball and they’ve scored to tie the game.
“Too bad Ryker ain’t here. He made it more fun,” says the LSU lineman as he gives my leg a kick the refs don’t see. Eighty-four. Douche.
“McQueen—my fault, man,” says my offensive lineman. He hauls me up. “He beat me. Won’t happen again.”
I give him a pat and take a step toward the sideline. My knee twinges as I put weight on it, testing it. Nothing broken or sprained, but I have to limp off the field.
Trainers run up, help me to the bench, and push and pull on my knee.
“Just took a knock,” I insist.
Coach Alvarez comes over and pulls off his headset. He doesn’t look at me, but at the trainer.
“How is he?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
The trainer nods. “He’s okay. Nothing’s torn. He may have strained some ligaments. We should put some weight on it before he goes back in.”
I stand and pace the sideline. “No. I had worse in prep school.”
“Keep checking him out. We’ll go with Sinclair,” Coach says into his headset and turns away.
What the…
I am fine!
No!
“Coach, I’m good!” I protest.
He lets out a gusty exhalation. “So you say. Walk it off for a few plays and we’ll let Sinclair take a shot.”
He leaves and I hunch over, pretending to test my knee as I suck air in.
This isn’t happening.
Sinclair already has his helmet on, and I grab him by his jersey.
“Hands off, Grandpa.”
“Don’t be a little shit for five minutes!”
His eyes widen.
My jaw pops. Emotion claws at my throat, disappointment in myself, that I’m not enough for this team. “Watch that line. They’re changing directions and pushing our own guys in my face. They’re fast, better than the last teams we played. Watch DeMarco—eighty-four. He plays dirty.”
His throat bobs. “Alright.”
“You nervous?”
He nods and turns to go, and I snag his sleeve. “Remember the basics. Don’t be a superstar. Play safe. Take control of your men and play—”
“Nothing fancy. Got it.”
“You’re learning.” I slap his helmet. “Go. Score. Win.”
The trainers have me running around the sidelines to keep my body ready to go, and my chest burns to get out there. By the time the clock has run down to the fourth quarter, my eyes keep darting to Coach. I’m here, I’m ready.
The clock is ticking down to three minutes when LSU scores a field goal, and I groan. 21 to 24. I tug at my hair. We can’t lose!
My eyes flit up to the stands where Serena sits with the press. She’s bent over her seat, her face stark and eyes wide. Our eyes meet for a moment and she holds her hands up in a praying motion. Yeah. I swallow thickly.
At a minute left, Coach calls a time out. My trainer pulls him aside and gives an update on my situation. “He’s good.” I hear, and Coach motions for me to come over.
“I’m pumped,” I say. “Put me in.”
“No,” he tells me quietly. “I make decisions for the team. I’m going with Sinclair. You’ve played a good game, but just take a breather.”
A breather?
“I can win.”
He ignores me and calls the team over. “McQueen’s knee is still a problem. Sinclair’s going in for the final drive and overtime if we need it.”
Sawyer and Troy and a few others give me questioning looks, but I shake my head. I’m not going to disrespect Coach. He’s letting me save face by saying I’m injured. He wants Sinclair.
I rouse the offense and yell, “We came to LSU to beat them. Their defense is kicking you in the teeth. Show them who we are!”
The team replies in unison as they run out onto the field.
I’m pacing the sidelines, pissed at Coach, angry with myself, and anxious that Sinclair isn’t going to score. They’re stuffing the run at every turn, and his passes are too short. He’s not close enough for a field goal.
I clutch my helmet as the seconds pass. Ten, nine, eight—
The snap
