We line up. Our kicker sets up and kicks the ball. It is a high, long kick.
We rush down the field.
Most of the time, my thoughts rush around in my brain like a swarm of mosquitoes, but out on the field everything slows down. Fortunately this game is no different—my thoughts are focused and clear.
As the ball descends, I know that 23 will make the catch. I see him take a few steps forward, his arms out front, and before the ball is even in his hands, I know he’ll run straight up the middle. I see him plant his back leg and turn his shoulder.
I’m ready to strike.
Heart racing, legs pounding, I head straight for him. But Green cuts between us. I put my right shoulder out, and ram into his chest, but I just bounce off the giant number 46 on the front of his jersey and land on the ground, the breath knocked out of me. Number 23 leaps over me, but I manage to reach up and grab his left leg to bring him down. He falls hard.
A whistle blows and the crowd roars. I can tell 23 is hurting.
I reach down to help him up, but he doesn’t take my hand. Instead, number 46 gets in my face. His eyes are the color of mud, and he smells like sour milk.
“Heard your team won’t even exist next year—that the Wolves are dead.”
I move closer to him. Our facemasks are just a few inches apart.
“You heard wrong,” I say. “We aren’t going anywhere.”
“Yeah, right,” he says with a laugh. “Your whole town isn’t going anywhere. It’s all washed up.”
I push him in the chest, and a referee comes over to separate us. When we line up again, I stare him down. The Titans’ center snaps the ball, Ellison Green goes left, and I go right. I tackle 23 as soon as he catches the ball. I hit him hard midstride and knock the ball out of his arms. One of our players pounces on it, and now it’s ours.