Page 126 of Racking Up Penalties
My teammates exchange glances, their resolve unwavering. One by one, they recount the events, their words painting a picture of loyalty and conviction.
As the stories pour out, the tension in the air begins to dissipate, replaced by an undercurrent of unity. It’s palpable, the shared understanding that some things transcend the field, the scoreboard, the roar of the crowd.
And Tessa… she’s one of those things.
Coach’s jaw sets tight, the lines of his face etched with the weight of leadership and the burden of decision. His eyes no longer spit fire but seem to churn with a storm of contemplation. The locker room falls silent, every breath held, every heartbeat a drum in my ears.
“Tyler,” Coach finally says, voice still carrying the edge of authority but tempered now, “you’re off the team.” His words slice through the tension like a clean break. A collective exhale ripples through the room, and I feel the knot in my stomach loosen slightly, only to be replaced by a pang of guilt.
“Tristan,” he turns to me, and I brace myself, “I don’t condone violence, but I respect standing up for someone who can’t do it themselves.” His nod is almost imperceptible, but it’s all the absolution I need.
As Coach strides out, leaving his verdict hanging in the air, my teammates swarm around me clapping on the back and murmurs of support fill the space where doubt used to reside.
“Man, you did what any of us would’ve done,” Marcus asserts, his hand gripping my shoulder. “Tessa’s important to you so that makes her one of us, you know?”
“Yeah,” Brett chimes in, “and no one messes with our QB. Not Tyler, not anyone.”
“Let’s take this energy onto the field,” I say, the words coming out strong and clear. “Let’s win this for each other.”
“Damn right,” they chorus, and the locker room buzzes with a new kind of anticipation, an electric current of camaraderie.
We finish gearing up, shoulder pads snapping into place, helmets tucked under arms. Each thud of cleats against the floor is a promise, a pact without words: we stand together. As we head toward the field, I carry with me the warmth of my teammates’ loyalty, the weight of responsibility, and the fire to fight for what’s right.
“Thanks, guys,” I say, my voice ringing with sincerity. “For backing me up. For understanding.”
“Always,” replies a chorus of voices, firm and unwavering.
“Alright, boys!” Coach calls out, his voice the spark that ignites us into motion. “Time to show them what we’re made of!”
With a final nod to my reflection, I follow my teammates out, my cleats echoing a steady beat. Every step I take is for them, for her. We’re in this together, and that’s all the strength I need.
The chill of the evening air hits me as we burst through the tunnel, a stark contrast to the muggy warmth of the locker room. My cleats grip the grass, each blade seemingly reaching up to meet me, urging me on. The roar of the crowd swells, a wave of sound that crashes over us, dousing my nerves in adrenaline. I can feel every eye in the stands, but my focus narrows to the game before me.
With each stride, I shove the weight of the fight further into the recesses of my mind. It has no place here, not now. This field, this game—it demands all of me, and I refuse to give it anything less. My pulse thrums in my ears, a relentless drumbeat.
The lines on the field stretch out like lanes of possibility, and as we take our positions, I ground myself in the present. I glance at the faces of my teammates, their expressions mirror my own fierce determination. We are a singular unit, moving with purpose and anticipation.
“Delaney! Eyes on the prize!” Coach bellows from the sidelines, his voice cutting through the cacophony of cheers and jeers.
I nod again, more to myself than to him, and crouch into stance. The whistle pierces the air, a call that sets everything in motion. I explode off the line, muscles coiled and then releasing, propelling me forward with a force that feels primal. Every step, every cut, every breath is an exertion of will—a manifestation of the passion that courses through me.
* * *
We’re approaching halftime now, and the score is tight, but there’s no room for doubt, no space for hesitation. I dig deeper, pushing past the burn in my lungs and the ache in my limbs.
The whistle pierces the air, snapping my focus back to the present — to the game. My cleats dig into the grass as I pivot, eyeing the defense from across the field. Every muscle coiled, I’m a spring waiting to uncoil. Anticipation buzzes in my veins like electricity. The ball snaps; I react.
* * *
There are only minutes left on the clock and we are down by three points. This is my last chance.
The ball slams into my palms from the snap — a satisfying thud that resonates with every beat of my heart. I tuck it against my side.
I sprint downfield, dodging opposition with practiced ease the word fades. Right now, it’s only the field, the play, and the ball. Everything narrows to this moment. Time to score.
I cross the line, the crowd erupts, and I bask in the glory.
“Nice run, man!” A slap on the helmet from one of my brothers-in-arms jerks me back. Their approval is a tangible thing, wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
