Page 49 of Bump and Run

Eleven

Junior

Pure adrenaline.

There’s no other way to describe it. The call of the screaming crowd — most of which came just to catch a quick glimpse of Cary Pierce. The rehearsed rhymes from the cheerleaders. The weight of the pads on my shoulders. It all comes together with the pouring sweat and pulsing blood and that’s what it creates: Pure, unfiltered adrenaline.

Add in the taste of Eliza Pierce’s lip gloss still clinging to my tongue and I’m surprised I’m even conscious right now.

I look straight ahead and stare into the faces of the defensive linemen, each one of them just itching to dart forward and take me out. Their black eyes give a nervous twitch and I fight the grin from spreading across my face.

Earlier tonight, that twitch was nonexistent. They knew who we were. They knew the reputation this school has, just like everybody else does.

We’re a bunch of losers.

Not so much anymore.

We’re twelve points ahead. Twelve. That’s a bigger lead than we’ve ever had. The other team thought they had this in the bag but since the start of the fourth quarter, they’ve been sweating a little more than we are.

I glance to the sidelines and I lock eyes with Cary Pierce. He nods at me with his arms crossed over his chest and for a moment, I think this is all just a dream.

If someone walked up to me when I was ten-years-old and told me that someday I’d be the quarterback for a college football team coached by Cary freakin’ Pierce, I’d have said they were full of shit. Especially when they added in the part about feeling up his hot daughter in a dark, empty classroom.

With eyes forward, I lean down to prepare for the snap. The world spins in slow motion and I turn my head to check the positions of the offensive line one last time, my cleats digging into the turf just twenty yards from the end zone.

“Hike!”

The center snaps the ball back and I catch it as the defensive line shoves forward with hell in their eyes.

My eyes shift to the wide receivers on either side. The one to my left struggles to make it past the cornerback but Ty bolts like lightning around the fray.

I pull my arm back and throw it over their heads, arching it far down the field a split second before a two-hundred-pound mass topples me to the ground. I roll them away and pulse up onto my knees to watch the play unfold.

Ty sprints and launches forward to catch the ball before rolling onto the ground — smack dab in the middle of the brightly-lit end zone.

The crowd screams with victory and the world shakes from the sound of their feet pounding against the bleachers.

My eyes rush to the clock. Seven seconds. There are only seven seconds left in the game and we’re officially up eighteen points.

We’re going to win.

I throw up my hands and scream, along with the rest of my stadium. It’s hard to say who’s more shocked: our team, their team, or the crowd.

I look at Cary Pierce. He’s still standing there on the sidelines with his arms crossed. The only difference is that now he’s smirking — like he knew this was how it was destined to end all along.

My ears ring so badly that I don’t even hear it when the clock hits zero.

* * *

Ty hopsup onto the bench and waves his hands around the locker room to get our attention. He’s still clutching the football but the man deserves to hold onto that for as long as he fucking wants.

“Party at our place tonight!” he announces, igniting a wave of shouts and hoo-rahs from the team. “Bring your booze! Bring your women and friends! Leave your inhibitions at the door!”

He hops off the bench and pats my shoulder, quickly realizing that I didn’t actually approve a giant post-game party at our shared residence.

“That cool?” he asks.

I laugh. “Of course.”

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