Page 104 of Secret Love

“Born ready,” I tell him.

“You’re on fire out there tonight. Carry it on home,” he says.

Weston gives us some last-minute directions as we huddle, and we pound each other on the back before we run onto the field.

Time to put our foot on their neck.

But a couple uncharacteristic miscues leave the door open. Arizona’s offense seizes the opportunity and starts working their way back into the game. With time winding down in the fourth quarter, they throw up a prayer, and suddenly it’s all tied up.

We run the offense back onto the field with just under two minutes left on the clock, determined to make a statement. Our two-minute drill is starting to click, and it feels so good. We’ve moved forty-some yards in just three plays and hardly eaten any time off the clock.

In the huddle, Weston calls me out. “Forty-nine, red, on three.”

I’ve had two defenders on me the whole game, but they fall back when Penn takes the handoff and runs toward me. I’m already headed back the opposite way with a full head of steam when he pitches me the ball. It’s a perfectly executed reverse.

By the time I hit the line of scrimmage, the defense is already beat, and I’m headed for pay dirt.

About ten yards from the goal line, out of the corner of my eye, I see the free safety desperately racing toward me, so I step it up, surging faster than ever.

And I get there.

I break into the end zone feeling like I could still run another forty yards, the adrenaline is pumping so fast.

I’m about to spike the ball and start the party, when I feel it.

I’m tackled from the side. The crowd is roaring too loud to hear the crunch in my knee, but I feel it, and I instantly know it’s not good. A penalty is called on the other player, but it barely registers. The pain is blinding and when I’m unable to get up right away, I’m surrounded within minutes. Dr. Grinstead andJimmy Scott, our head team physician and athletic trainer, are the first two faces I see when I roll to my back.

“What is it?” Dr. Grinstead asks.

“My knee,” I croak out.

Jesus, this is bad. My eyes squeeze shut as I pray and curse and try to take a breath. This is so fucking bad.

I look at Dr. Grinstead and see the alarm on his face.

There’s very little that has kept me down in my career. I’ve had my fair share of injuries, but I’ve been lucky.

I’ve also been a stubborn son of a bitch and walked off the field every single time.

This is different.

ACL tears are one of the things we fear most, and I’m pretty sure that’s what just happened.

A stretcher comes out and it takes everything in me to not yell when they lift me up onto the cart. As they start rolling me out, I realize the entire team is surrounding me. I lift my head and look around, relief flooding me when I see the guys.

“Tell Tru and the girls that I’m okay.”

Bowie nods. “We will.”

“Love you, man. Please be okay,” Rhodes says.

“You’ve got this,” Penn yells.

Weston’s eyes are intense as he grips my hand. “We’ll be back to check on you as soon as we can.”

As I’m taken out on the injury cart, the noise in the stadium builds to a roar. I hear my name coming from every direction. There is stomping and clapping and I close my eyes and let the sound fan the last flame of hope that I’ll be back out on this field again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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