Page 46 of The Brotherly Shove

And like this we go, short forward passes and quick runs trucking us down the field. Yard by yard, inch by inch. Four whole minutes of playtime on this drive—an incredible feat if I do say so myself. If we can continue to run the clock down and then score, we'll give ourselves a better chance of keeping Dallas from having enough time to take the lead.

We make it to the 17 yard line with a little less than six minutes on the clock. Not ideal, but if we can score here, I have faith in our defense and their ability to keep Dallas out of the end zone. Lennon snaps the ball and I catch it, taking a few steps back. It takes a moment, but I spot a wide receiver completely open and unmanned near the corner of the end zone. I lob theball and watch it hurdle straight towards him, but he's knocked down from the side before he can catch it.

I'm waiting to see if anyone else can get to it before it hits the ground when I'm knocked in my left side with a resounding thud. Despite my pads, the wind is knocked straight out of me as I fall to the turf with three hundred pounds of Dallas muscle on top of me. My right shoulder takes the brunt of it, but I can still feel the reverberation of my helmet in my skull as it ricochets off the ground and back again. Black dots spot in front of my eyes, and through the ringing in my ears, I can faintly hear the sounds of whistles blowing in every direction, a yellow flag landing directly in front of my face.

I lie there, my breathing stunted as the man who tackled me is pulled off by someone in a Redwoods jersey. There's a scuffle of feet in my line of vision, and if I had to guess, a fight is about to break out over the dirty late hit I just took. I'd love to be able to get up and defend myself, but when I attempt to put pressure on my left hand to push myself up, a bolt of pain so excruciating it almost makes me piss myself right here on the turf shoots through my shoulder and down my spine. Resigned, I wait until the medics can come help me up.

I'm sure a medical time out has been called, and I watch as officials run in from all sides of the field to break up the mass of men standing over me. After what feels like an eternity of lying here with my head on the ground, I'm assisted to my feet by two trainers and a nurse practitioner. I thank god for the mouth guard between my teeth when the sharp pain explodes in my shoulder again when touched as I'm lifted. I'm not dizzy, nor do I think I have any leg injuries, so before they can even ask me any questions, I'm hobbling to the side of the field.

I look up and see Ma hanging over the wall from her seat, face bright red and screaming with both her middle fingers up.She refused to let me put her in a box for the game so that she could be closer to the action.

Well, here ya go, Ma. You get to see your boy get fucking wrecked up close. You're welcome.

At some point, my ass finds the bench. My helmet is removed and tiny flashlights are burning my retinas. Checking to see if I need to go into concussion protocol, I suppose. I keep my shoulder still, not yet wanting anyone to know that I'm pretty sure it has popped right out of its socket under all these pads.

I know I should tell them, I know I should. But I have a feeling I know what's going to happen next. Dallas was given a 15 yard penalty for the dirty hit I took. We're only two yards from the endzone. If I'm pulled out of the game, some running back will be put in as QB, we'll kick a field goal and likely lose the game.

There's only two people I know of who can make what needs to happen, happen. I cannot get pulled.

Coach is conferring with his staff, his face behind his laminated play sheet, shielding his mouth from the cameras and anyone who might be watching. I see our kicker warming up on the sidelines and start to shake my head. No, no, no. Not fucking happening.

"Coach!" I call out, biting my tongue to hide my wince as I push off the bench. "Coach, I'm fine. I don't have a concussion. It was a hard hit but I got this. Don't send in the field goal unit. Let me back out. We'll run the sneak and we'll get the touchdown. I promise you I can do this."

Coach Elliot looks at me skeptically, even more so when Lennon appears at my side, frantically shaking his head 'no'.

“Absolutely not, Coach. It's not worth it. You saw that hit. Send in the field goal unit, we've got plenty of time?—”

"Lennon!" I cut him off with a harsh hiss between my teeth. "I can do this. We can do this."

He leans in to whisper directly in my ear, his voiced seething with anger and pain.

"Do you think I don't know? You think I didn't see you down on that field? Your right shoulder is fucked and you're hiding it. Don't be a goddamn idiot, Breaker."

"Lennon," I say, dropping my voice to a whisper that matches his. "I need this. We need this. You know it, and I know it. We won't win otherwise. I love you, but shut the fuck up and get out on that goddamn field, now."

He pulls back, and I see that his blue eyes have gone a dark shade of midnight blue. Out of anger? Fear? Lust? It's hard to be sure.

"You two got this? If I put Lawson in, you gonna follow through Griffith?" Coach asks, and neither Lennon nor I take our eyes off each other. A beat passes, and a bunch of sick butterflies flap wildly in my stomach as the medical timeout starts to wind down.

"We got this," he finally bites out between gritted teeth, and a moment later we're lined up in formation on the field, our offense practically on top of each other. No one even bothers trying to draw Dallas offsides, we're close enough to the endzone. We've done this a thousand times. We absolutely have this.

Lennon snaps the ball, and though it feels like a million swords stabbing me in my left arm as soon as I move it, I manage to grip the ball and hop on Lennon's back. My mind goes blank, the stadium goes silent, and all I can focus on is the throb in my shoulder, the hands pushing my ass and the man underneath me as he surges forward.

A millennium goes by as I'm suspended in this time warp. Not hearing, not seeing, feeling only pain, pricks of needles all over my skin and a thousand pound chip on my shoulder.

Except wait, it's not a thousand pound chip. It's a thousand pounds of sweaty football players lying on top of me like they're a bunch of muscled up princesses and I'm the pea under their mattress. Slowly, too slowly, the weight starts to lift. As the pressure eases off my back, the blood in my left arm boils like a raging pot left on the stove unattended for too long. There must be blood leaking out of my ears, my nose, my eyes. Where else would it all go when it's bubbling over like this?

The mass beneath my chest slides out from underneath of me, but before my face can hit the turf, I'm yanked to my feet by my good arm. I almost cry when the football slips from my grasp until I see where my feet are planted.

Right over the white line. Right in the endzone. We did it. I did it. He did it. My heart beats wildly in my chest, a beat made up of both celebration and pure shock. Lennon rips my helmet off of my head, and I'm sure he's about to give me a whack upside my temple and haul me to the medical tent over his shoulder.

Just when I think I can never be shocked by anything ever again, Lennon removes his own helmet and then grabs me by the cheeks, pulling me in and planting a kiss directly on my lips.

"You're so stupid," he cries as he pulls away, and then his mouth is right back on mine, pressing long, hot, wet kisses on and around my lips.

"You're so stupid," he chants between kisses that I'm too weak to return. "You're so stupid, Breaker. Why would you do that, baby? Why would you do that? You're so stupid."

I look up at Lennon's teary eyes as he finally pulls away, my head feeling dizzyingly light from the onslaught of his affection.

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