Rushed(50)

I take the snap from Dave and roll out to my right, looking for space. I'm not throwing this, even if it is a pass play, and when some daylight shows, I tuck and run like hell. The linemen are easy, and with a juke I get past the linebackers, leaving me in the secondary with DeAndre and Paul as lead blockers. They've seen that I'm running and they're doing their best to screen for me and I turn it on for the sidelines, hoping to run the seam.

I lower my shoulder and meet the guy coming at me, shoulder to shoulder and helmet to helmet, each of us about the same size, although I'm a bit taller. Still, I've got momentum on my side, and as we go tumbling, I fall into the end zone. Touchdown.

The first thing I see when I hit the sidelines is April in her seat on the fifty, clapping and jumping up and down in her green. Coach is next, clapping me on the shoulder. “When you said you wanted to run more, I didn't think you meant yourself,” he says with a laugh.

I shake my head, laughing. “I just saw daylight, and ran for it.”

The second half turns into a scoring fest, with the Montreal offense striking back quickly. We trade touchdowns, and going into the fourth quarter we're right back where we started the half, down by four.

I don't know if my hand can do it, but sometimes the mind has to be stronger than the body as I take Dave's snap and drop back, I glance to my right, and DeAndre’s got a step, starting his cut on his post pattern. I step and put everything into it, and for perhaps the first time today, my hand feels fine as the ball rolls off my pinky, flying nice and tight all the way to hit DeAndre in his hands in stride, and he takes off.

He doesn't see the free safety coming up on an angle though, and he nails him, the ball flying out of his hands and going to the turf, where a Montreal player falls on it. Our first turnover of the game, and it couldn't come at a worse time.

On the sidelines, DeAndre’s feeling like shit, and I come over, taking a seat next to him. “You okay?”

“I should have seen that guy, Tyler. I don't fumble.”

“Yeah, and I don't throw interceptions, but I've done it four times this year too, remember?” I remind him. “You got hit with a hellacious shot. Straight up Sports Center type hit.”

“They don't show Canadian ball on Sports Center, remember? TSN's the best we can hope for,” he says with a bit of a smile. “All right. Next drive, I'll hang onto it.”

He’s right, but it doesn't matter. Montreal converts the fumble into another touchdown, and with an eleven-point lead, they turn up the heat on defense, blitzing constantly and harassing the hell outta us. I can get short passes and runs off, but that's it, there's just not enough time to set up for anything deep. I'm hit, over and over as I let passes go, and as the final seconds tick off the clock, I'm aching, worn down, my hand on fire from getting jammed into the ground, and the Fighters end up losing by eight.

In the locker room, I ice my hand, frustrated. We had the skills, and if our defense had just stopped the Montreal offense a couple more times, we'd have been able to pull it out. My own play, while not great, still wasn't that bad. Two touchdown passes, my run, and no interceptions. Not world changing, but that's not a bad game.

Still, it's not enough, and when the team docs come over, I'm not in a good mood. “Let's take a look, Tyler.”

He fiddles with my finger, and I wince a few times as he moves it around and has me flex it a few times. “When's it hurting you?”

“Mostly on releasing the ball,” I say. “It's f*cking with my spin.”

The doc hums, then looks at me and Coach, who joined us a minute ago. “I think it's a deep bruise more than anything else. I don't think it'll affect you next week, just ice and rest it for the next two days.”

Doc leaves, and Coach pats me on the shoulder. “You showed some guts out there. Get your rest, and on the plane ride home, open seating for everyone. No need to be a dick when we played hard.”

His news gives me at least a little bit of reassurance, and when I come out I see that April's already heard. She gives me a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “I know the team lost, but I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks. Doc says my hand should be good by next Saturday,” I reassure her, kissing the top of her head. “And Coach says we've got open seating on the plane back. The benefits of charter flights.”

“That's true. You know, you surprised a few folks out there today. Some of the people around me were commenting that you're playing tough.”

I laugh. “Yeah, the surfer look and what I did at Western isn't exactly good for a tough guy image.”

“What do you mean?” April asks, and I entwine my fingers with her as we head toward the buses to the airport.

“I had the rep of being a pretty boy,” I admit with a little chuckle. “I had a chance to be the starter as a sophomore, but took a hit that really knocked the hell outta me, broke a bone in my foot too. Instead of toughing it out, I took Coach's advice and took a redshirt year instead, and started my last two years. Unfortunately the team didn't do a good job of explaining to the press just how much the damn thing hurt, so instead of it being labeled one of those freak breaks, I picked up the rep of being a wimp. It didn't help that Coach Bainridge at Western insisted that all quarterbacks slide instead of take hits head on, and that I had f*cking Iron Man Duncan Hart playing with me. That guy is one tough SOB.”