Page 2 of Scored

“Fin, talk to me, man,” JD’s voice broke through the ringing.

“Graham.” Coach Tilson was now in view, lines of concern prominent around his eyes.

“I’m okay,” I managed to say.

Whether it was mind over matter or the rush of adrenaline that came after a hit, the pain seemed more tolerable.

“Get a stretcher,” Tilson yelled.

“No.” I pushed myself up with my right arm. “I can walk.”

“Are you sure?”

I reached up toward JD who grasped my right hand and helped me to my feet. The movement sent nauseating shock waves from my shoulder. My left arm was heavier than before. Looking down, I willed it to move. It was almost as if the limb didn’t belong to me. “It’s my shoulder.”

With Coach Pratt on one side of me, my right arm over his shoulder, and a trainer on the other side, his arm around my waist, I hobbled back to the sideline. I willed myself not to look down the sideline for the woman I’d just disappointed.

This was a must-win game. That was the thought dominating my mind as I collapsed on the turf.

The world around me began to make sense. It was like a radio station that was finally in tune. I stared at the trainer. “How much time is left?”

“A minute and twelve seconds.”

“Help me up.” When the trainer looked unsure, I said, “I’ll do it myself.”

He reached for my right arm and pulled me to my feet.

The scoreboard said we were ahead by one point 14–13.

“Dennison is out there,” he said.

Holding my left arm against my torso, I turned to see Marcel Pickett at my side. “What down? How many yards?”

“Texans were called for pass interference with your throw to JD. That got us down to the Texans’ thirty-eight-yard line and a first down.”

My gaze went out onto the field. The Coopers were lined up in split-back formation. Spencer snapped the ball to Dennison. He faked a handoff to Bennett before throwing a shovel pass to Patel.

Six yards on the play.

The clock read one minute and two seconds.

On second and four from the Texans’ thirty-two-yard line, Dennison tucked the ball and ran through a gap in the defense. He slid feetfirst at the Texans’ twenty-eight-yard line.

First down.

Time-out called by the Coopers. It was our last time-out.

I stepped toward Coach Pratt.

“You’re coming in,” he yelled into his microphone.

Dennison came toward the sideline, visibly upset.

“I told you no heroics.” He turned his attention to our third-string quarterback. “Jackson,” Pratt yelled. “You’re in.”

My body trembled. The season was on the line. Jackson knew our plays, but could he hold on to the ball? “Coach,” I called. “Put me in.”

“Graham, you’re injured.”