Page 64 of Second Quarter Comeback
The air practically hums, thick and electric, like the universe itself is holding its breath. Second down, third quarter. We’re down by three points, and the crowd is losing its collective mind. Their cheers rise and fall in waves, crashing into my earslike an endless, roaring tide. Every step I take feels like I’m wading through mud—not that I’d ever admit it out loud. My eyes flick to the scoreboard. Time hates us tonight. And Lucian—damn him—is soaking it all up like he’s starring in his own soap opera.
He’s across the field, bouncing on his toes like a smug kangaroo, his helmet tilted just enough to scream too cool for this game. That cocky grin of his? It’s pure Hollywood villain. He thinks he’s the main character in this story, the hero ready for his shining moment. My brother, Lucian the Perfect. Always so annoyingly good at everything. He’s been writing this script in his head for years, and there’s no way I’m letting him stick the landing tonight.
Coach’s voice barks through my helmet, rattling me back to reality. The play comes through loud and clear. My guys gather around me, their eyes sharp and expectant, like I’m the only one standing between us and a lifetime of highlight reel humiliation. Their frustration radiates, but beneath it, I see something else: hope. They’re waiting for me to flip the script.
“Trips left, 43 stretch,” I say, calm and deliberate. My voice is steady because it has to be. I lock eyes with Darnell, holding his gaze a beat longer than anyone else’s. “Be ready to improvise. You see daylight? Take it. I’ll find you.”
Darnell nods, his jaw tight, his focus razor-sharp. He believes me. Thank God someone does.
The huddle breaks. We line up, the defense glaringat us like they just took our last slice of pizza. My linemen crouch, ready to throw down like their reputations—and my ribs—depend on it. My heart thrums against my sternum, fast and wild, like it’s in on the drama.
“Seven, blue, go.” My voice can be hard through the stadium. “Set, hut.”
The ball snaps into my hands, and suddenly the world narrows. Time bends in that weird, sports-movie way. Everything is chaos, but it’s a chaos I know, a storm I’ve lived a hundred times before. My feet move fast, light against the turf as I scan the field. The pocket holds—barely—but I can feel the pressure coming, a freight train of blitzing defenders closing in.
I spot the linebacker charging like he’s got a personal vendetta against me. For a second, the safe play flashes in my mind: dump it off to the running back, avoid disaster. But nah, where’s the fun in that?
Darnell’s moving, cutting toward the sideline, his jersey a streak of white against the melee. He’s not open yet, but he will be. I know it in my bones.
The linebacker lunges, all brute force and bad intentions, and I spin on instinct, barely dodging his arms. My cleats grip the turf as I pivot, the movement sharp and fluid. The crowd gasps in unison—a collective inhale that reverberates through the stadium.
There. Darnell breaks free, a flash of brilliance in the chaos. No hesitation. I plant my feet and launch theball, every muscle in my arm protesting the force. It’s a perfect spiral, slicing through the air like it’s on a mission from the football gods.
For a second, the world slows. The ball arcs high, defenders leap, and I hold my breath. Darnell dives, his body stretched impossibly long, his fingertips grazing the leather.
He pulls it in.
The stadium explodes. The sound is deafening, a thunderclap of cheers that shakes the ground. Darnell hits the turf, rolls, then pops up like he’s just saved the world. He holds the ball high, grinning like he’s the happiest man alive.
I jog over, adrenaline coursing through me like liquid fire. My teammates swarm, their cheers loud and unfiltered. Darnell smacks the ball against my chest, his grin wide enough to split his face.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he shouts, his voice ringing with pride.
I can’t help but laugh, the tension finally easing. “Hell of a catch, man.”
“Hell of a throw,” he shoots back, pointing at me before jogging off to the sideline.
The energy shifts, a buzz rolling through the team like electricity. It’s in the way they move, the way they rally to the line for the next play. We’re alive. We’re dangerous.
Across the field, Lucian glares at me, his jaw set,his eyes practically daring me to do it again. I flash him a grin, full of teeth and no apologies. Challenge accepted, little brother.
This? This is our moment. And Lucian? He’s just the opening act. We still have five minutes in this quarter and the fourth one to go.
The fourth quartergrinds on like a war of attrition. Play after play, neither side gives an inch. The defenses are relentless, like two immovable forces slamming against each other, refusing to budge. Every yard gained feels like a small miracle, every incomplete pass a gut punch. The clock ticks down, each second dragging like molasses, and still, no one scores. It’s not football anymore. It’s a battle of wills, a test of who can hold out longer without breaking. My shoulders ache, my legs scream, but there’s no time to think about that. Not yet.
Then, in the final minute, everything changes. A perfectly executed play, a slant route that Darnell runs like his life depends on it. The ball leaves my hand, and for a second, I swear time stops. The crowd goes silent, every eye tracking its spiral. Darnell stretches, the defenders just a step too late, and snags it in the end zone. Touchdown. The stadium explodes into a frenzy. We’ve done it. The Gladiators are up, 31-28, with only seconds left on the clock.
The defense holds strong in the last moments, and when the final whistle blows, everything stops. My heart hammers, my lungs burn, but the silence is deafening. For a split second, it’s like the world holds its breath, waiting for the moment to catch up.
And then it hits.
The roar of the crowd erupts like a bomb, a tidal wave of sound that drowns out everything else. My teammates swarm me, their shouts and cheers blending into a chaotic blur. Someone grabs my helmet, shaking it like they’re trying to knock my brain loose. Another slaps my back so hard I nearly stumble. I don’t care. We did it.
Across the field, Lucian stands with his hands on his hips, staring at the scoreboard like he can will it to change. His helmet is off, and his hair sticks out at odd angles, but his expression is pure frustration. I can’t help it—a grin tugs at my lips as I jog toward him, pulling off my helmet.
“You were close, little brother,” I call out, my voice just loud enough to carry over the noise.
He shakes his head, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Too fucking close. One more play and we would’ve won,” he mutters. “You got lucky.”
