Page 50 of Melting the Ice

The offensive lineman who’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to block Dean for the whole game, looked winded.

Even more, he looked halfway to complete defeat.

Well, halfway wasn’t enough for Dean.

They had changed their formation at halftime, moving to double team Dean in earnest, with the hope that this new plan might give their quarterback a precious few extra seconds to get the ball before Dean punched through the line.

It hadn’t worked. Dean was used to being double teamed.

He’d just shucked the first guy and dodged the second, moving with the speed and undeniable strength that he’d been blessed with, and that he’d worked so fucking hard to hone.

The whistle blew, and Dean attacked, pushing his legs as hard as they would go. This was their fifth game of the season, and while he was always conditioned, he’d never been in better shape than he was right now. He could push forever, if he needed to.

And he intended to.

He came around the edge, shucking the offensive tackle with a stiff arm to the shoulder and then faced the tight end who was supposed to be helping the tackle with his impossible assignment—Dean. But the tight end, while big, wasn’t as good at blocking as Dean was at destruction, and he gave him a quickstep to the side and didn’t even have to touch him. He went down, and Dean ran past him, legs churning, lungs burning.

The quarterback’s panic was blatant even behind his helmet.

Dean only had a split second to decide—and while he almost never did this, because he didn’t usuallyhaveto, he went for the ball instead of the player himself.

Marshaling his strength, he punched the ball with every ounce of it, and it popped right out.

Scooping it up, he tucked the ball away and dodging another lineman, took off for the Evergreens’ end zone.

It was a good seventy yards away, and he wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Good shape be damned, he didn’t usually need to run for more than ten yards. His legs weren’t conditioned to do long bursts—only short ones. But that didn’t matter.

Like being born poor or unwanted had ever mattered.

Dean pushed all that bullshit to the side, dug deep and drove himself with every ounce of energy he had left in his system. Dodged one receiver, evaded another, and yet he could feel the group behind him, forcing him to move faster.

The crowd screaming in his ears faded away, and he had only one thought, crystallizing in his brain.

If you get a sack fumble touchdown, nobody’s gonna say shit about your smile on the sideline.

Ten yards and all that shit they normally care about means less than nothing.

He knew it was true, and that was why when he heard the footsteps behind him, he tried to find one last burst, but it just wasn’t there.

A hand shot out and a body followed, and Dean went down, six yards from the end zone.

A sack fumble, yes, but not a touchdown.

He lay there on the turf, black spots dancing across his vision, and didn’t think he’d have it in him to even get up.

If he’d scored, sure, he’d probably be dancing around in the end zone, exhaustion be damned, but right now, six yards short felt like a million fucking miles.

A hand appeared over him, then a face. It was Eaton. “Shit, man, I never seen a big man run like that,” he said, as Dean gripped his hand and prayed he wouldn’t embarrass himself by puking all over the fucking field once he got upright.

He didn’t.

But as he carefully jogged back to the sideline, so many back slaps and congratulations tossed his way, Dean only thought,what would they be saying if I’d made it?

“Shit, man,” Wes said as Dean collapsed on the bench. So much for his normal spot, away from the team, all the way at the end of the sideline. He’d never be able to hold himself upright without his knees wobbling.

Someone thrust a water bottle into his hands, and he shot Gatorade down his throat, then the PT produced an oxygen mask and he took several deep, long breaths of it before pushing it away.

“Sorry I didn’t make it in,” Dean said, because that was all he could think about.

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