by Celia Aaron
“It was.” I quieted when I felt my throat close up.
“I understand.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek, then turned on the radio to a local station. They played only holiday tunes this time of year.
By the time we were on the interstate, she had me singing along—and completely off-key—to every Christmas song that came on.
When we reached the apartment, we sat in front of our twinkling Christmas tree, her in my lap as I played with her hair. She was perfectly snuggly in flannel pajamas, which I planned to remove before we got in bed.
She turned to look at me, and took my face in her small hands. “This has been the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
I smiled and nuzzled her nose. “Same here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CORDY
THE MASS OF BODIES behind me felt like a single organism, one bent on crushing the life out of the Eagles’ season. I stood at the head of the line, Trent at my side, as we listened to the music pumping through the stadium. A steady roar of the crowd rolled through the newly built venue, and anticipation thickened the air.
The Bobcats were pegged as the underdog, with the line in Vegas giving the Eagles a seven-and-a-half point advantage. But the bookmakers didn’t know us. They didn’t know our team. We would end this game with a win, and the Eagles would return home empty-handed. After that, we would play on the biggest stage of all—the National Championship game.
“You ready?” I bounced at Trent’s elbow, excitement coursing through me.
Trent looked down at me, a smirk creeping up under his eye black. “Not as ready as you are.”
“Shut up. I’m excited. It’s okay to be excited.”
“Don’t be a hero out there.” He patted my ass as our fight song played. “Let’s go!”
Coach Sterling had already taken off, heading for the sideline. We followed, running through the smoke to the sound of eighty thousand people cheering or booing. I ran straight for the practice net behind the benches and began to set up my kicks. Hawthorne was there doing a few extra stretches. Trent huddled with Coach Sterling and his linemen, double-checking strategy for the game and getting ready to go to work.
We won the coin toss, and opted to defer to the second half. The Eagles swarmed the opposite side of the field, their red jerseys painting the sideline.
“You’re on.” I clapped Hawthorne on the back as he ran out with the kickoff team. The band seemed louder in the professional stadium, and the sound echoed. The crowd noise receded to a low hum as Hawthorne got set. The hum grew into a yell, and then into a deafening roar of “go Cats go” as he kicked the ball to the Eagles.
Their returner caught it at the five and gained ten more yards before being brought down at the fifteen. We settled in for a grueling game. The loss of Ethan had weakened the defensive line, and the Eagles took full advantage. On their first possession, they drove down the field with a series of running plays. When they got to our twenty, they fumbled and we recovered. Bobcat nation breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Trent took the field, and so it went, team against team. The game remained scoreless after first quarter. Trent threw a bomb in the second quarter, and we moved close enough to try for a field goal. Hawthorne trotted out. I held my breath as he lined up the shot from the thirty-one, a forty-eight yard field goal.
The snap went well, and he managed to get it up and high, but it veered barely left, missing by only a foot, if that.
Trent patted Hawthorne’s helmet as he ran past. Coach Carver didn’t even say a word of correction to him; his execution was perfect, but the ball didn’t go his way. Nothing to be done.
“Don’t sweat it.” I punched him in the arm.
His wry smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That pretty much sucked ass.”
“Next time. You’ll hit it next time.”
He nodded and plopped on the nearest bench. “Right.”
“You just needed to warm up a little. You got this.”
He stared up at the closed dome over our heads. The temperature was a perfect seventy degrees or so, no matter how frigid it was outside.
“You can stop now.” He ran a hand through his bright red locks. “But I appreciate it.”
We soldiered on through the second quarter. Trent got the team into scoring position again. On the next play, he handed the ball off to our running back. A defender shot a gap and tackled the runner immediately. The ball came loose. The Eagles fans shook the stadium when the ball was scooped up by another defender. Trent made the tackle and kept him from running it back for seven points, but the damage was done. What little momentum we had was gone, dissolved under the harsh stadium lights.
I dashed out to the edge of the sideline as Trent ran in. He went to Coach, and they argued for a few moments before Trent stalked off. Then he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the ground for a few long seconds. Then he seemed to shake it off and motioned at our running back to keep his head up. I smiled. He was pissed, but he was a leader above all. They put their heads together as our defense worked on holding off the Eagles onslaught. The clock ticked down until only thirty seconds remained in the first half.
If we could get to halftime without a score, we could start fresh when we received the ball first thing in the second half. The Eagles had made it to a first down in Bobcat territory, but the clock wasn’t on their side. With only a few seconds left, they sent out their kicker.
I whispered all sorts of jinxes, and Coach Sterling tried to ice him with a time-out. Despite all that, he kicked the field goal as time ran out.
We went to halftime down by three points. I stayed with the guys and hurried into their locker room. We milled around, some of the coaches going over assignments with certain players. I downed a cup of water and walked over to Trent.
“Feeling okay?”
He wiped his face with a towel. “Making it. I think we have a strategy figured out. Throwing it in the flat seems to work best, and they have a hard time—”
“Take a knee!” Coach barked.
We all hit the floor, Trent on one side of me and Hawthorne on the other.
“No one thought we would be in this situation. Those bookies in Vegas? They’re sweating us right now. The Eagles? They’re sweating us right now. Three points? I could wipe my ass with three points and flush it down the goddamn toilet!”
A deep yell went up around me. Since my main function was to make three points, I took a slight bit of umbrage, but I decided it wasn’t the best time to broach the subject.
Coach stared hard at each player, stopping on every set of eyes as he looked around the room. “Now, we’ve had tough fights all year. We haven’t come through unscathed, but we will come out on top.” He whipped his hat off his head and shook it at one section of players. “The Eagles? Their schedule had more creampuffs than the bakery down the street.”
A few chuckles went up, and Hawthorne snorted.
“We have strength of schedule, strength of character, and above all, strength of team!”
A round of yells went up as Trent stood and walked into the center of the circle. There was no hint of nerves in his stance. Gone was the boy from speech class. In his place stood a man, a leader; our quarterback. “We’re better than these guys. Ever since our loss, I’ve watched each and every one of you grow over the course of the season. I’ve watched you scrape and claw your way to have a chance at this game. I’ve watched you have each other’s back.” His eyes lighted on mine, and the love I had for him filled every corner of my heart. “I’ve watched you sacrifice. All for this chance at redemption. Well guess what?” His voice rose into a thunderous yell. “That chance is here. That chance is now. We just have to take it!”
The entire team leapt to its feet, and raucous yells created a deafening din as Trent’s enthusiasm spread from player to player. I yelled right along with them, feeling the moment. Trent held up a hand, and we quieted, all eyes on him.
“We play for each other.
I know who I’m playing for.” His gaze returned to mine before he swept it over every player in the room. “This team, all of you. You play Bobcat football, and I guarantee you they won’t be able to stop us. The season has come to this, our final choice between being nothing and being champions. I choose to be champions. How about you?”
I thought the roar before was deafening. But this one felt like it might pop my eardrums. We shook the walls with our desire to win, our need to right the wrong from earlier in the season. A new energy pumped through the room, and I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
Coach clapped Trent on the back. “Let’s get out there and destroy them!” He headed out of the locker room, the team at his heels.
We sounded like a freight train barreling through the tunnel and out onto the field. I’d never seen the team this amped up, and the same electricity flowed through me. I wanted to do just what Trent had said—play for him, play for my team, and crush the Eagles. The crowd seemed to sense it, and the noise grew as we hyped them by raising our arms and egging them on during kickoff.
We took the ball at the twenty and ran it to the fifty before our runner was tackled. Trent set up and dismantled the defense play by play until he was five yards from the end zone. On third and five, he threw a perfect spiral to the front of the end zone, and the stadium boomed its approval.
I ran out, lined up, and kicked the extra point. We were up seven to three, and it remained that way as we entered the final quarter of play.
“Hold them. We have to hold them.” Hawthorne and I stood beside each other and watched our defense struggle on the first set of downs.
Our defense gave up two first downs, then finally stopped the Eagles’ running game on the third set of downs. They kicked the ball away, and we gained good field position at the forty thanks to a shanked punt.
Trent ran out, the familiar number nine in control of the field of play. He went three and out, never even close to the first down thanks to a sack and a false start. The good field position didn’t help us, and Trent jogged back to the sideline. Our defense was tired, but had to get back out onto the field.
They were still fighting, but worn down. Play after play, the Eagles drove down the field. Then I watched as Ethan’s replacement missed a tackle and the runner cut up the middle, dodged to the right, stiff-armed a defender, and high-stepped it into our end zone.
“Shit.” I rubbed my temple.
Their kicker made the point after, and just like that, we were down by three points.
“Double shit.” I checked the clock. Their offense had whittled it away prior to the touchdown until only five minutes remained in the final quarter. That could be an eternity on a football field or a snap of a finger, depending on who had possession.
The Eagles kicked it off to us and pinned us down at our own eighteen-yard line. Trent methodically took the team down the field, keeping an eye on the clock as he did so. The Eagles had been double covering our best receiver the entire game, so Trent changed to more of a run-based strategy, employing short passes in the flat to get out of bounds and keep the clock from ticking away too much.
Four first downs later, and he was at the Eagles’ twenty-yard line.
“I can’t believe this,” Hawthorne said. “He may pull it—”
I clapped my hand over his mouth. “Are you trying to jinx it?”
He shook my hand off and stared at our offense. “He needs to get the play off.”
“He’s got time.” My hands were sweaty as Trent ran down the line and changed the play.
“Play clock is down to seven. Game clock only has twenty-nine.”
“Shh.”
Trent yelled for the ball, and the play went into motion. Trent tried to hand the ball off, but the runner bobbled it. Trent yanked it back before a defender creamed the runner. He ran toward the end zone, got a couple of good blocks, and stretched for the touchdown right as a defender threw a shoulder into him. It was a hard hit, and I heard the crack of contact.
I gasped and ran down the sideline. He hit the ground, and the ball rolled from his grip. One of the defenders tried to pick it up and run with it, but the refs whistled the play dead. Trent had been down at the two-yard line when the ball came out, and video replay confirmed it. He didn’t get up, just flopped onto his back, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.
The trainers ran out to him. I only stayed on the sideline because Hawthorne held my elbow.
“He’s okay. He’ll be okay.” I didn’t know if I was reassuring myself or Hawthorne. Probably myself.
When Trent sat up, the stadium went wild, and when he rose and trotted to the sideline, there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief.
Coach yelled to the offensive line coach. “Call time!”
I dodged through the players and ran to his side.
“What is it?” Coach Sterling bent his head to hear the trainer’s answer, his face darkening at each word.
“We have no damn depth at quarterback.” Coach glanced at Green, the second-stringer, and shook his head. “He’s not ready.”
“Trent?” I scooted around to face him.
“It’s my shoulder. They think it’s dislocated or something worse. Right arm.” He winced as a trainer pressed on his shoulder blade.
“He’s out.” The trainer didn’t even flinch when Coach let loose a stream of invective that would have killed a nun.
“What about Green?” Trent shot the kid a look. I’d seen him in action. He wasn’t ready. Great potential, but his mechanics needed work.
An idea started rolling around in my mind—it was foolish, over-the-top, and definitely not well thought out.
“Green’s all we got.” Coach Sterling spit on the turf. “We’re about to shit the bed in the playoffs.”
“I can play.” Trent pushed the trainer away who was feeling on his arm.
“Yeah?” Coach poked him in the shoulder, and Trent winced. “That’s what I thought. I’m not having a first round draft pick ruin his arm on this game. It’s Green.” He turned and yelled to the offensive coach. “Call time again.”
“One left, Coach.”
“I know that, goddammit! Call the next one, too!”
“Put me in, Coach. I’m ready to play.” I blinked. “Should I have sung that?”
“What are you on about, Baxter?”
“Trent can’t play, Green will lose the game, but I can win it.”
“We need more than three points, Baxter. Three points will land us in overtime with a quarterback who can’t play!” He turned to walk toward Green, who still sat on the bench with a dazed expression.
“Wait! Not three. Six!”
“Six?” Coach whirled.
“Six.” I stared up at him. “Put me in. They’ll think we’re trying to tie it for overtime. It’ll be a fake. I’ll run it to the end zone. Just give me the chance.”
“That’s crazy.” The crafty glint in his eye undermined his words. Then he shrugged and waved the idea away as if it were a troublesome fly. “Besides, Trent can’t even hold the ball.”
“No, she’s right.” Excitement lit Trent’s voice. “Listen, Coach. We always practice the fake where I throw the ball over my left shoulder. I can do that fine. Nothing wrong with my left arm.” He clapped me on the back. “And I put way more faith in Cordy than Green.”
The offensive coach called for our last time-out.
“That’s gutsy as hell.” Coach scratched his forehead and looked from me to Green and back again. “A gutsy move. You got the balls for this, Baxter?”
“I was born with them, Coach. They just haven’t dropped yet.”
He laughed, the insanity of my plan likely fueling the chuckles more than my joke. He sobered and considered me one more time.
I pulled my helmet on. “Trust me. I can do this. The play I’ll make out of this will replace that ‘Kick Six of the Century’ on every highlight reel.”
“Time’s up, Coach!” We were out of time-outs.
Coach put his hands on his hips. “Well, hell. Get out there. Let’s see what we can do.”
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I cut through the line of players and ran onto the field with my kicking team.
“You got this,” Trent said. “Just follow the plan. Make it look natural. Take your steps like usual. They won’t know what hit them until you shove it down their throat in the end zone.” He knelt as our teammates lined up on the two-yard line, right hash. I’d have to get to the corner and cut around to the end zone while taking care not to step out of bounds.
“I got this.” I squashed the memory of the Kick Six and focused on the play clock ticking away.
My team depended on me, and I refused to let them down like I had at the start of the season. My head and my heart were in the game. With Trent holding for me, I couldn’t lose. I took a deep breath and ran onto the field. The crowd quieted, or maybe I just shut them out. I ran the play in my mind over and over again.
The defensive line was set, and my teammates lined up in front of me. It was go time.
Marking off my steps, I did my usual set up. I stopped and lined up, then motioned for the hike. As soon as Trent signaled, I set the play in motion by running to the left. He tossed the ball, and it slid into my hands. Tucking it under my arm, I pumped my legs as fast as I could. Trent jumped up, sprinted, and threw a hard block that gave me a little room on the outside. I darted to the edge and sensed grasping fingers as the defenders tried to hem me in. I was so close when I felt a hand on the back of my jersey.
Time stood still, the crowd went silent, and all I saw was the white line that separates the winners from the losers. I stretched my arms out, holding the ball ahead of me, and dove for the end zone.
