Page 43 of Rocking the Receiver
We keep pushing, moving methodically down the field. When we punch it in for the touchdown, my shoulders relax for the first time since my injury. We’re up 7-0, and I’m back in the game. At last!
As I reach the sideline, Coach Schott shouts, “Looking sharp out there. Stay smart.”
Attentive Cutter joins in, “Don’t overextend.”
I catch my breath, gesturing in approval. “Appreciate it, Coach. Will do.”
The game is electric. The ankle holds up with every cut, every sprint, and I feel like I’m back in my element. We close out the first quarter leading 10-3 after a field goal.
Gunner comes over and bumps my shoulder while the defense is on the field. “You good, LeFire? Looks like you’re moving well out there."
I wipe sweat from my forehead and beam. “Yeah, bro, thanks. Like I told Coach earlier, it feels good to be out here again. Just gotta keep it up.”
“Pretty cool comeback, man. Congratulations!” He offers me his signature all-American smile.
“Too soon for that. We need to dominate this game from here on out.”
“Then we party? Unless you have romantic dinner plans for your big comeback?” he jokes.
He’s teasing about partying. Despite being the youngest on the team, he’s well-aware I don’t stray from my strict football regimen, especially not when I’ve just recovered.
Head in the game, I evade the second question, chuckling. “There’s no place like home, Toto.”
In truth, I can’t wait to snuggle in bed with my man, instead of worrying I might screw up because of a weak ankle. A home game would have been a less stressful return… but then again, playing the Oklahoma Copperheads, our long-time rivals, is my welcome back gift. Even Chris said he wanted me to win against his home team! Also, the irony isn’t lost on me. Being the only ginger on the field is a good omen: Slaying them is my self-appointed mission.
And because I love to bait my former mentor, both on and off the field, I can’t stop myself from adding, “If you must know, no romantic dinner, but my significant other understands my demanding career. We’re in the same boat…” I bolt from the bench without giving Gunner the opportunity to inquire further. We’re due on the field anyway. “Now, let’s win this!” I exclaim, mostly for my benefit.
When he strolls behind me, he whispers between clenched teeth, “Don’t think I missed that piece of info… You owe me details.”
“Later,” I promise as we head into the second quarter, which doesn’t go as smoothly.
The opposing team’s defense adjusts, and suddenly, our drives stall. We struggle to maintain the momentum. The intensity rises, and my pulse quickens. On one play, I break free on a deep route, but Cal’s pass sails over my fingertips. My frustration builds.
“Almost had that one,” I mutter, jogging back to the huddle.
Cal shoots me a quick look. “We’ll get it next time. Stay ready.”
They tie it up at 10-10, and by halftime, we’re down 13-17. Fuck! I shiver from unease, anxiety creeping in; this isn’t how I wanted my comeback to go.
The locker room is quiet, except for the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles being cracked open. Rosie and Cutter check my ankle again, which I’m thankful for, although I don’t particularly enjoy the attention. My head is in the game. The pressure is mounting, my heart is pounding in my chest, and my ankle is throbbing slightly.
Coach Oliveira talks strategy, reminding us to stay focused. But my doubts linger. How uncharacteristic of me… but evidence sucks.
His pep talk doesn’t help. I feel like shit, replaying the missed opportunities in my head. Have I done enough? Can I help turn this around? Since when do I think this way?
Cal and Gunner walk over and sit on either side of me. “You’re doing fine, LeFire. We’ve got this. Just keep your head in the game.”
“Yeah, I know…” My voice betrays my worry. “I just… I need to step it up.”
Cal claps me on the shoulder. “We all do. We’ll get there.”
The third quarter is a grind. We’re fighting for every yard, every first down. Cal and Gunner are in sync, and the rest of the team is amped up. The scoreboard starts shifting in our favor. As the game goes on, we start to find our rhythm again. It’s not just me—everyone’s clicking, making plays, pushing through. This team’s vibe doesn’t compare with my previous sour experience.
At this very moment, the opponents are tough, no doubt, but we’re tougher. I make a catch on third and long, getting hit hard as I go down. My ankle twinges, but I shake it off, getting up quickly. My teammates are in the zone, too. It’s not just about one guy—it’s the whole team working together, sticking together as a united front.
“Nice catch!” Woodhull, one of the linemen, yells as I dash to the huddle.
“Thanks,” I reply, breathless. My pulse is racing, and the sweat is dripping down my face. My concentration doesn’t waver on the next play. We manage to close the gap—24-20 now—but it’s still anyone’s game.
