Page 34 of Dream Chaser
Third quarter, we do just that. Warren airs it out to Hart for a 50-yard gain. Then Grimes runs it in for six. We’re up 17 to 10, and for a minute, it feels like maybe we can push through the bullshit.
But fourth quarter?
They start pulling even more garbage.
Grimes gets flagged for a phantom face mask. Warren gets hit lateagain, and when he pops up and asks for a flag, he getsflaggedfor taunting.
We’re down by four with three minutes left.
Then, against all odds, we drive the ball downfield—clock ticking, fans screaming, every ref swallowing the whistle when their cornerback grabs Hart by the face mask anddrags him out of bounds.
No flag.
Somehow,somehow, I get the ball, break through, and punch it in.
Touchdown. No celebration dance, no fanfare, no time.
We’re up 26 to 24.
Philly gets the ball back with fifty-two seconds. We stop them twice. But on 3rdand 14, they throw a desperate pass to the sideline that’s bobbledandtouchedturf, but their receiver’s hand was on it.
The ref signals complete.
Boone loses his voice yelling at the sideline ref. Cohen throws his headset. Fans behind us are booingtheir own team.
Still, the play stands.
And with nine seconds on the clock, they score a touchdown.
30 to 26.
They line up for the two-point conversion. A run up the middle. Bricks meets their fullback head-on and stuffs him short of the line.
But the ref?
Hands up.
“It’s good.”
Are you kidding me?
I’m on the ground, knees in the turf, mouthguard dangling from my teeth, watching the replay on the jumbotron, and it’s clear to me and the rest of the damn stadium, it’s not in.
But the call stands.
Final score: 32 to 26, Philly.
They don’t even storm the field like they earned it. They slink back to the tunnel like thieves.
And us? We’re just standing here. Bruised. Bloody. Betrayed. No one speaks. Not yet.
Lucas Links appears on the sidelines, face almost purple. “We didn’t lose that game. Theytookit!”
When he starts to storm the field toward the refs, he’s met by security.
“You’re gonna stop me from trying to get fucking answers!”
“Dad,” Logan says, sliding in front of him. “Ava will handle this.”
