Page 52 of Undeniable
By the time I looked up with my arms outstretched, the ball landed in my hands.
I tucked it against my body and ran the rest of the way to the end zone. As I reached the goal line where the field crossed into scoring territory, my left foot came down then boom. A brick wall barreled into me. I sailed a few feet through the air as though I was diving into second base, making sure to hold on to the ball. I went down hard on my chest, and the air punched from my lungs as my helmet rattled around my skull.
The fans howled like wolves, or maybe that was the ringing in my ears. I sucked in as much air as I could, climbing to my feet, exhilarated that we had converted the scoring play. This touchdown was what we needed to get back in the game, although we needed the extra point to even the score and send the game into overtime. But if we gambled on a two-point conversion, we could win the game.
The ref came over and took the ball from my hands as my teammates crowded around me in celebration of the touchdown.
Ryker beamed at me as we jogged toward Coach. Time to huddle and decide—play it safe with the extra point or risk everything on a two-point conversion for the win.
Suddenly, the noise level slowly died down as the lead ref, a stocky man, walked into the middle of the field.
“The touchdown is under review,” the lead ref said then went over to the sideline monitor to watch a replay.
No. No. No.
All of us on the team froze.
I spit out my mouth guard. “That was a touchdown,” I repeated over and over to myself and to anyone who was listening.
The atmosphere suddenly felt cold as my heart kicked my ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape. I replayed the catch. My left foot had come down in the end zone just as I was tackled. I swore it did.
The offensive linemen draped their arms over each other as if they were about to perform like the Rockettes on Broadway.
Ryker paced like a madman.
Erik, Vin, and Ajax were pressing their hands to their mouths. Other guys on the team sat on the bench, attention glued to the sideline monitor.
As for Coach, I understood why he was bald. The man had to have pulled out his hair during plays like these. I sure as hell was ready to pull out mine.
Weak chants piped up from the spectators. “Let’s go Wolves!”
I swiped a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “That was a touchdown,” I continued to repeat over and over, shaking my head.
Our assistant coaches, clipboards in hand, stayed calm.
One excruciating minute then two seemed like fifty million years. Then the lead ref jogged back to the middle of the field.
Ryker sidled up to me, jaw tight, gaze lasered on the ref.
“It was a touchdown,” I said again. Maybe if I kept repeating it, I would make it so.
“After further review, the ruling on the field is confirmed,” the lead ref announced. “Number 11’s foot was in bounds.” He held up both arms, indicating a touchdown. “The scoreboard now shows 20 for the home team and 21 for Hill Country.”
Holding my head in my hands, I threw it back and thanked whoever was listening above.
The stadium went ballistic, creating a wall of sound around us as though the fans were protecting us from battle, and a battle it would be.
The band played, and above all that the crowd began to howl as if they were calling us home.
We hurried into a huddle with Coach and his assistants.
“It’s an extra point to tie and go into overtime,” Coach said.
“Two point conversion,” Ryker said to Coach. “We got this. This is our moment. That touchdown is our sign that we’re going to win this game.”
“Hell, yeah!” The players pumped out with confidence.
Coach shook his head. “It’s risky as hell. Their defensive line has been on point all game.”
