Page 124 of Red Zone
We get the ball on our own twenty with three minutes left.
I call the guys in.
“All we need is three,” I say, my voice low and steady. “We’ve done this a hundred times. You do your jobs, I’ll do mine.”
They nod, and we line up.
Snap.
I drop back, see the rush coming, and dump it off to the running back for eight.
Next play, I keep it myself on a read option, diving forward for another first down.
The clock’s ticking.
One minute left.
We’re on their thirty-five.
I fake a slant to Beck and hit Jaxon on a deep out, putting us on the twenty.
The crowd’s deafening now.
Thirty seconds.
We spike it to stop the clock.
Second down, I take the snap and roll right, looking for Beck in the corner. Covered.
I plant my foot and cut back left, weaving through traffic until I’m inside the ten before they drag me down.
The guys haul me up, and I grin, already calling the next play.
Fifteen seconds.
First and goal.
I glance at the sideline just once, and I see her there—watching me, eyes wide, her notepad forgotten at her side.
This one’s for her.
I take the snap, fake the handoff, and loft a quick fade to Jaxon in the back corner.
He comes down with it.
Touchdown.
Game.
The stadium erupts, my teammates piling on me as the final whistle blows.
We’ve won.
We’re going to the playoffs.
And for the first time in my life, that’s not even the best part of my night.
When we finally file back into the locker room, the guys are still hollering, throwing towels, spraying water like champagne.
