Page 158 of The Play

Only a few more first downs, and none of this would matter. The Piranhas would kick the field goal and win the game.

Deacon got set, the rest of the defense fanning out behind and next to him, and the ref blew the whistle.

The play unfolded as he’d expected—Pax dropped back, ball in his hands, and Deacon pushed hard, legs churning on the turf, hitting the tackle with all the speed he could find in his body and pushed the guy back. He was still blocking him, because he was one of the best tackles Deacon had ever gone up against, but he was slowly, inexorably being pushed back by Deacon’s force.

Just a little more, Deacon thought as he dug down hard into his reserves.

All those years of conditioning and weights. It felt, in some ways, like they were leading to this moment, to give him that little extra bit of push to make this play.

But before he could push the tackle the last few steps back into the pocket, colliding with his quarterback, Pax threw the ball.

Deacon’s eyes followed it, and he swore under his breath as Beck and Wade both went up for it.

And Wade came down with it, hitting the turf hard as he held on to it.

The Piranhas had needed eight yards for a first down, and that had been eight yards and a fucking inch.

“Shit, shit, I’m so sorry,” Beck exhaled hard as he hit the huddle.

“It’s all right,” Deacon said. But they all knew their task had gotten impossibly harder. “I’m not expecting them to throw again.”

“Is that new running back vulnerable?” Micah wondered. “I don’t really know him.”

Made sense, because Micah had only spent a few games with the Piranhas this season before he’d been traded to the Condors. He’d be a lot more familiar with the Piranhas’ old running back, Kenyon, who’d retired after last season.

“We can go after the ball,” Beck said.

“We should go after the ball,” Nate agreed. “Punch it out.”

Deacon hesitated.

He remembered, all too well, how the last game between the Piranhas and the Condors had gone when they’d played a season before. The old defensive coordinator, desperate to win, had encouraged everyone to play dirty.

Punching out the ball was allowed, of course, and often even encouraged. But after last year, it made Deacon squirm, even though he knew that was one of their only options left to actually stop the Piranhas.

“It’s kosher,” Beck said under his breath as the huddle broke up. “You know it. It’s not like before.”

“Still feels like before,” Deacon said shortly.

“Deac—we’re clean. We’ve played a fucking clean game. You know that. You brought us back. You and Mr. G. You have to believe that.” Beck’s voice was earnest, his eyes wide and pleading.

Deacon tested out the feeling. Did he believe Beck? He sure as hell wanted to. But Beck was right, he needed to believe it for himself.

“I . . .I do.” He did believe it, he realized. Beck was right. They’d played a clean season. And even if any of them managed to grab the ball from the Piranhas’ running back, it wouldn’t change anything. They wouldn’t fight dirty to get it, they weren’t built like that anymore.

Now, they were built clean and shiny and new.

He’d done that. He and Grant, both.

That, more than anything else, Deacon knew, meant that it was time to go.

“Good,” Beck said, patting him on the shoulder. “Now let’s go finish this.”

Sure enough on first down, Pax handed the ball off. Second down, too. Nate and Deacon and the rest of the defensive line stopped him pretty easily. Kept him from getting close to getting the first.

Then third down, it was the Piranhas’ running back again.

Deacon had studied how he was holding the ball—and he thought it was possible. Especially because on a third down, he would push for as many yards as he could get, hoping to get the Piranhas closer to the first. Closer to their end zone. Dylan, the Piranhas’ kicker, was seriously good, but he wasn’t that good.

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