Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
The ball is snapped, and I drive forward, juke a little to the left, then shoulder my way through.
Their quarterback already has his arm pulled back, foot stepping forward and prepared for the release. Going for a sack won’t work, so I jump, arm stretched as high as it can go, fingers spread wide.
The ball tips my ring finger, toppling, and changes trajectory. From the corner of my eye, I see our safety, Thompson, fly up, the ball landing right in his fucking hands.
The crowd goes crazy, and we run down field, blocking, but he’s shoved out of bounds at the thirty.
Still, the AU pride is going wild, the stomping in the stands echoing all around us.
The defense jogs off, but I stay right where I fucking am, meeting Coach’s gaze on the sidelines.
He gives Alister the play, and Alister runs out, but I frown when I spot Chase and Hector still on the sidelines.
“What the hell?” I frown. “We have to pass.”
Alister shakes his head. “He wants to push up the middle.”
“It’s first down and we’re already losing time!”
“It’s not my call.”
Shaking my head, we get into formation.
Unlike Brighton, we only get a single yard, the line too fucking strong for our guys to break through. Second down, Coach calls the same thing, and now I’m getting pissed. The clock is still running.
I’m about to get in fucking trouble.
The ball is snapped, and I rush forward, grabbing the D-tackle, and I hold the fuck on.
The play ends with our guy getting tackled, and flags are thrown.
“Goddamn it, Lancaster!” Coach screams on the sideline, the white hat turning on his mic and making the penalty official.
“Holding, offense number ninety-eight. Ten-yard penalty, repeat third down.”
Gotta pass now, don’t you, Coach?
Coach points at me, aware of what I just did now that he’s had a second. I’ll get chewed out for purposely causing a penalty later, but oh fucking well. No more bullshit.
I look to Mason, dressed in his AU sweatsuit on the sidelines, a ball tucked under his arm, to see what his reaction is, and he gives me a nod.
I blow him a kiss in response, grinning around my mouthpiece.
The new play is called, and thank fuck our running backs jog out, exchanging places with our receivers.
Chase is chuckling as he comes up, slapping me on the shoulders and getting into position.
I look at Alister, who nods, his chest rising with a deep breath as he gets into position.
The ball is hiked and I do my part, closing the gap, staying low and fucking strong.
Alister hesitates, and a motherfucker comes around his backside, forcing him to throw the ball away.
I growl, shoving my guy away, and storm up to him as I yank my mouthpiece out. “What the fuck was that?!”
“Harper was in double coverage and Hector was short. I—”
“You could have made the pass,” I say, cutting off his excuses.
“I just told you, he was in double coverage!”
I get in his face, knocking my helmet into his. “And I just fucking told you, you could have made that pass!” He starts to shake his head, so I hit his helmet with mine again. “I went back and watched your high school game film. I know all your moves. Fire the fucking ball right where it needs to be.”
He glares. “You’re asking me to risk an interception on my already minimal stats.”
“No.” I grip his face mask, my eyes hard on his. “I’m telling you to do what I know you fucking can, so quit with the self-doubt. Make the pass, Howl. Watch the way the crowd stands up for you when you do.”
His nostrils flare, and he yanks away, both of us getting ready.
It’s fourth fucking down. If we don’t get in there this drive, our chances are cut in half. We need three touchdowns to win. We get into the end zone here, and we’ve got all of the fourth quarter to turn things around.
“You sure about this?” Chase mumbles, arms hanging loose at his sides.
“He can do it. Show him you can too.”
Chase gives a hard nod and, when Alister calls the first hut, shifts.
The ball is snapped, I do my job, and not long after, the ball is sailing over my head.
I jerk free, watching as it soars toward the left corner of the end zone.
Chase, once again, is being double-teamed, a guy on each side of him.
The ball starts to drop, Chase’s cleats digging into the turf as he runs, arms swinging, the defenders right on him.
He jumps, reaches, and does his fucking job, the ball yanked into his chest, shoulder down as he barrels his way across the one-yard line.
Touchdown.
The crowd flips out, the band plays, and I turn to Alister, grinning like a fool.
He throws his fist in the air, but he doesn’t stop to seek the praise like he has done in the past. No, he gives that single show of celebration, but he’s already running toward the end zone.