Page 132 of Against the Clock

Dale’s shouting something at me and I make myself focus. A glance up at the huge scoreboard overhead shows we’re in possession.

An interception.

I launch off the bench, heading to the huddle, knowing what they’re going to decide, knowing what we need to do.

We’re down by seven. A touchdown and a field goal would tie it up, or we could score a touchdown and risk a two-point conversion for the win.

I promised Coach Morelle I’d do my best this game. I promised him.

Dale’s telling all of us what we already know, but we listen all the same, and I can feel the moment the mood shifts.

We could win this thing. We could win.

“This is what we’ve been training for,” Dale is yelling, his face beet-red. “This is the moment you prove exactly what you’re made of. Now get out there and do the damn thing!”

“Let’s fucking go,” I shout, adrenaline racing through me.

The next minutes somehow pass in slow motion and too fast all at once, the kind of passage of time that’s impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t felt the pressure of a stadium full of fans in face paint and jerseys with their name printed across the back.

The ball is part of me.

The game is in my blood.

I’m one of the lucky ones.

The seconds tick by on the scoreboard and I launch the ball, ignoring the fresh burst of pain that cracks across my shoulder, deep into my back.

Ty Matthews dodges one of the cornerbacks, fingers stretched out for the ball.

Touchdown.

The noise of the crowd comes back in a tsunami of sound.

We’re one point down.

We know what to do.

In their favorite section, the Hot Dams are doing their normal chant, but this time, they’ve changed it. They’re shouting my name.

Harri-son! Harri-son! Hot Dam, he’s the man, he’s Harri-son!

The offensive line pulls in for a quick huddle, and even though I know the coaches are warming up the kicker, he’s not going in.

We’re going to fucking go for the two points.

We’re going for the fucking win.

“Ty. I want you wide open, you hear? Everyone else, get him open.” I grab Jacob’s shoulder. “We’re doing the Matthews switcheroo.”

It’s a damned lottery. Trick plays can be a ticket to heaven or a ticket to hell, depending on the outcome.

Today, I want the miracle. I fucking need to be a believer again.

“Coach Dale doesn’t want us to run that,” one of the guys says. He’s third-string. Too new to know that sometimes the fucking coaches, especially ones named Dale, don’t know shit.

“Does Dale have the ball? Is he out here bleeding on the turf? We’re running the play I called,” I snarl.

The rookie backs off, his eyes wide with surprise.

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