Page 40 of The Pass Protection
Love this for us. But no matter what the risk is, she’s worth it.
Hands slap my helmet as Harris screams in my face. “You ready, Riggs?”
“Hell yeah!” I shout back, pushing against his chest. Harris continues slapping the helmets of the starting offense as he gets everyone psyched for the game.
Within a few minutes, the captains are walking across the field as I stand on the sideline with my helmet in one hand and the other grips the neckline of my jersey. The announcer works the fans, and the crowded stands erupt in cheers.
I stand on the sideline with the team as the special teams take the field for kickoff. The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” blares from the speakers as the crowd jumps in their seats.
It’s loud.
It’s crazy.
It’s game time.
“Goddamn, I’m going to miss this next year.” Grant’s voice is loud next to me as we wait for our turn on the field. We play offense together—me as a tight end and Grant as a wide receiver.
“You could just flunk out spring semester. Come back and play with us one last time.”
He laughs. “Yeah, Riggs, that’ll be the day. I’m pretty sure if I fail out, my dad will kick me off the team.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. It’d be nice to get to play with you guys again next year.”
He shoves my shoulder as the crowd cheers at something our defense does. “Don’t be getting all soft on me now.”
“Nah, not me. We’ve got some ass to kick.”
“Yeah, buddy!”
The defense comes running off the field and gives shoulder bumps as they jump in the air. They were able to hold the opposing offense to a quick three-and-out. Jogging onto the field, I find my position on the left side, lining up near the opposing team’s bench, between the offensive tackles and Grant, our wide receiver. Harris takes his position under center as he calls out the play before waiting for the play clock to wind down.
The ball is snapped, and as Harris steps back into the pocket, I block the defender in front of me creating a gap for Xavier Boyd, Quinton’s younger brother, to run through. It’s a quick five-yard play. Jogging into position, I do the same thing as I did before. Football is a lot of repetition.
Lineup in position. Ball snaps to the quarterback. Block the defender in front of me. Repeat.
On third down, Harris calls out a new play with ten seconds left on the play clock. With my toes behind the line, my fingers twitch in anticipation. The ball is snapped as Harris drops back. I take off like a rocket, cutting through defenders as I find an opening.
With a slant movement, I turn to the sideline as the ball sails into my waiting arms. Spinning against the defender, I slip past the waiting defender. Tucking the football into my arms sothat it’s secure, I pump my legs as I rush toward the end zone. I’m five yards shy when I’m taken down.
Jumping to my feet, I’m greeted with congratulatory slaps against my helmet. The hollow knock and metallic clang echo inside the enclosed space. The jolting sound cuts through the background noise, a sudden reminder of the game’s intensity.
Resuming my position on the outside, we repeat the motion. Only this time, Harris slides back and throws the ball into the end zone to a waiting Campbell.
“Drink up!”
The ping-pong ball splashes into the plastic cup of beer. Harris stands on the opposite side of the table from me with a shit-eating grin on his face. The fucker is kicking my ass at beer pong. He’s dropping shot after shot, just like he threw for five touchdowns in our victory.
We’ve been at this party for three hours, and I don’t think there’s an end in sight. The Baseball House—where Cody Jacobs and three of his teammates live—is throwing the rager and bodies fill the space from room to room. A DJ has set up a table in the corner and has been keeping the party bumping with banger after banger.
Bret and Chloe dance on the makeshift dance floor in the living room where couches used to be. She hasn’t been far from view, but when I texted her earlier, she insisted I celebrate the win with the team since she isn’t drinking tonight.
I can safely say that I have. A happy buzz fills my system as the alcohol courses through my veins. Reaching for the red cup, I chugthe piss-warm beer. In high school, we would play with water cups and chug our beer from a can, but here it’s unsanitary beer in cups.
JP nudges my shoulder as a goofy, drunk grin spreads across his face. He’s been hitting the hard liquor, and he’s on his way to black out.
“You’re carrying this team, bro.” His words are slurred.
“No shit. Are you even conscious?”
