Page 33 of Dream Chaser
Then another one mutters, “Too bad that cop didn’t have better aim, huh?”
Boone doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. But his eyes go cold.
“Guess Hart and Grimes figured the best way to keep their contracts was screwing the owner’s daughters.”
They laugh—low, deliberate stage whispers meant to be heard.
I step forward. “Ref, you hearing this?”
One of the zebras lifts his head. “Hearing what?”
“The shit they’re saying. This isn’t banter; this is garbage.”
The ref sighs. “You trying to make trouble before the kickoff, son?”
“You serious?” I ask, pulse ticking hard.
“We’ll be watchingyou, number 54. Don’t start anything you can’t finish.”
“Better keep that pretty face covered; you’re going to need those sponsorships when you can’t walk.”
“Was that a fucking threat?”
I step back, barely keeping it together. Not because I’m afraid—because I want to swing. Bad.
Bricks murmurs, “They want us to crack first.”
Hart’s lip curls. “They won’t get it.”
But I can feel it building.
This game’s gonna get ugly.
And I can’t fucking wait.
The first quarter is a damn bloodbath.
We hold them on their first drive—barely. Bricks and Hunt eat their O-line alive. On our second offensive series, we getflagged for holding—twice. Same lineman. Only problem? He didn’ttouchthe guy. Even the home fans look confused.
Second quarter, Grimes gets targeted, helmet-to-helmet, after a short scramble. He’s slow to get up, clearly shook, but the flag? Nowhere. Boone and Bricks are losing their minds on the sideline. I’m pretty sure Coach Cohen chewed through a mouthguard trying to keep his mouth shut.
When Boone steps up to say something, the ref tells him to back off or he’s ejected.
“Ejected? He’s not evenplaying!” Cohen yells.
No response. Just that smug-ass zebra smirk.
We rally. Our defense holds. I make two sacks, one of them launching their QB into the turf so hard his ponytail comes undone. Still, every time we gain ground, there’s a flag. Late hits. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Blocks in the back that didn’t happen.
They want us rattled. Philly’s playing dirty, and the stripes are handing them a golden fucking pass.
By halftime, it’s tied 10 to 10.
Inside the locker room, the energy’s fire and gasoline. Boone’s pacing like he’s ready to suit up, regardless of his injury. Grimes is icing his ribs but growling, “Let them come at me again.” Hart’s pressing ice to his jaw, courtesy of an elbow the ref missed completely.
Coach Cohen walks in and throws a Gatorade cooler across the room. No speech this time. Just eyes that scream war.
“You know what this is,” he says, “so go take it, anyway.”
