Page 40 of Pieces

Seb doesn’t look at me, but his shoulders relax just a fraction. “You better be right, Hudson. Don’t let that kid get the fucking ball.”

Before I can reply, Coach’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Defense! Get your asses in gear! You’re making this kid look like Tom damn Brady!” He squares his body to face me, eyes focused. “I’m counting on you. Show them what for out there.”

The weight of his words pushes me onto the field.

When I reach the huddle, Nate, our cornerback, is already gesturing wildly, his helmet tucked under his arm. “We’ve got to start pressing harder on the outside,” he says. “That rookie’s too damn fast.”

“No shit,” I mutter. “But if we blow the coverage, he’ll torch us for thirty instead of ten.”

Nate scowls but nods. “Fine. So what’s the call, Hudson?”

I glance at the field, watching Washington’s offense lining up again. My gut is screaming at me to do something, to make a play, but I’m steady with my direction. “We keep it tight. Focus on short-yardage stops. Make them earn every inch.”

The huddle breaks, and I jog into position, feeling the tension in my shoulders tighten more with every step. Nate claps me on the back as he lines up on the outside, his eyes locked on their star wide receiver. “I’ll keep him busy,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “You just make sure that rookie feels it when he holds on too long.”

Settling into my stance, I nod. “Oh, he’s gonna feel it.”

The WSU quarterback scans the field with that cocky freshman swagger. The ball is snapped, and their line surges forward, but I’m already moving, reading the play as the QB drops back. Nate jams his receiver at the line, forcing him off his route, and I see the hesitation in the rookie’s eyes, just a split-second delay, but it’s enough.

I shoot through the gap, the tackle too slow to react, and close the distance in three quick steps. The quarterback barely has time to set his feet before I slam into him, driving him into the turf with a satisfying thud. As the ball pops loose, the sideline erupts.

“Ball!” someone yells, and I see one of our linemen dive on it, cradling it like his life depends on it. The ref blows the whistle, signaling the fumble recovery, and the stadium explodes with noise.

I push myself up, adrenaline coursing through me as I glance down at the rookie. He’s flat on his back, staring up at the sky like he just got introduced to gravity. Leaning down, I can’t resist. “Welcome to college football, kid.”

Jogging off the field, my teammates swarm around me, slapping my helmet and shouting as we regroup on the sideline. Seb’s already waiting, helmet in hand, his expression lighter than it’s been all game.

“Nice hit, Hudson,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder before running onto the field.

My chest heaves with deep breaths as I watch the offense line up. The scoreboard hasn’t changed yet, but something feels different. The tilt is shifting.

For the first time all day, it feels like this game is ours to take.

***

The game wasn’t ours. But we fought until the score was less of a failure. We walked away with our heads held high, even if we lost the game tonight. We’ve been on a winning streak, so it was bound to happen. We’re still in good standings, though. One loss doesn’t mean the end for us.

“That fucking kid is trouble on the field,” Miles says as he passes me an ice pack for my knee. I went down awkwardly during the game. Nothing serious, but I need a little TLC.

“He’s talented,” I reply, earning a glare from Seb. He doesn’t do well with losing, and if we lose our next game, we’re out for getting into the championships.

“Talented?” Seb snaps, his glare sharp. He’s sitting with an ice pack strapped to his throwing shoulder, his jaw clenched even tighter than it was on the field. “You want to send him a thank-you note too, Hudson?”

Adjusting the ice on my knee, I shrug. “Just calling it like I see it. Doesn’t mean I like the kid.”

Seb mutters something under his breath, and Benny elbows him lightly. “Relax, man. We’re still in it. One game at a time.”

“Yeah, and we need to win the next one,” Seb grumbles, but he doesn’t argue further. He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

Miles moves between us, handing out ice packs and muttering instructions about compression and elevation. “No partying tonight, boys.” His voice brooks no argument. “Coach would murder us if he saw half of you limping into conditioning tomorrow.”

“Who said anything about partying?” Benny replies, though his grin suggests it was a fleeting thought.

“You did,” Miles shoots back, tossing him a cold pack for his hamstring. Benny catches it and holds his hands up in surrender.

The room falls quiet, the kind of silence that settles after a hard loss, everyone too drained to do more than sit and exist. One by one, the guys start to peel off, mumbling goodnights and heading back to their dorms or apartments.

I’m the last to leave, waiting until my knee feels less stiff and the ice pack has done its job. When I finally head out, the campus is eerily calm, the energy of game night dissipated into the cold winter air. My breath puffs out in front of me as I walk, the faint crunch of my sneakers on the frost-covered sidewalk the only sound.

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