I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(62)

“WAYLON! TIGERS!” More whoops as Sawyer drops to the floor and does a body roll, pads and all.

We head off to team breakouts, and I suck down a Gatorade and sit next to Sinclair. He’s quiet as Coach Allen breaks down our plays, my passes, the coverage we can expect for the second half. He finishes with some changes he wants to try, and I study the plays.

The noise from the LSU fans hits us like a wave in the ocean as we line up for the second half. My nerves are stretched as we run the ball on first and second down, picking up eight yards. All we need is two more for a first down.

“Hike!”

Moving fast, I turn to fake a handoff. The defensive end on the right side has beat Sawyer, so I aim downfield for the tight end and send a perfect pass.

The LSU safety comes out of nowhere and snatches the ball then steps out of bounds. Fuck! It’s my first interception of the season.

Our defense takes the field, and one of them slaps me on the ass. “Chin up, McQueen.”

My shoulders roll as I walk off the field and wait for Coach.

“What the hell, McQueen? Why are you forcing the ball downfield? We want first downs, not touchdowns. Play my game, not yours.”

Alright, alright. “Yes, sir.”

The crowd erupts as LSU scores on our defense on a trick play.

Our offense takes a nosedive. Not one Waylon player can catch my passes, and running the ball is getting us nowhere. It’s third and long when I call a short, safe pass. The ball snaps and the LSU defenders blitz me. A hand grabs my jersey from behind and yanks me down. I double over backward and slam into the ground.

“I’ll be here all day. All day!” the LSU player yells in my face.

“You alright? You landed on your leg,” Sawyer says as we approach the sideline.

He’s right, and my knee hurts with each step I take, but a player knows the difference between being injured and hurt. I’m fine.

Play by play, I pace the sidelines as our defense starts to struggle. Tension fills the stadium as LSU marches down the field. We grow tight-lipped on the bench, and shoulders sag as I try to rouse them, popping helmets and slapping backs.

LSU scores another touchdown.

Sawyer grimaces. “Our turn, man. Let’s do this.”

I lead the offense to the line and LSU shifts, switching and adjusting fast. I inhale a deep breath, easing it out through my mouth guard.

“Hike!”

The right defensive end from LSU beats my lineman and, shoves him into my face. Rolling out behind him, I see clear grass and run for the first down, but a hit from behind makes me stumble. Spinning out of the tackle, I grunt as I’m hit by a linebacker from the opposite side and the ball slips out of my hand. It floats in the air for what seems like eternity before another LSU player catches it at a full run.

A defender crashes on top of me. Then another. The crowd roars and I close my eyes. Touchdown. I’ve fumbled the ball and they’ve scored to tie the game.

“Too bad Ryker ain’t here. He made it more fun,” says the LSU lineman as he gives my leg a kick the refs don’t see. Eighty-four. Douche.

“McQueen—my fault, man,” says my offensive lineman. He hauls me up. “He beat me. Won’t happen again.”

I give him a pat and take a step toward the sideline. My knee twinges as I put weight on it, testing it. Nothing broken or sprained, but I have to limp off the field.

Trainers run up, help me to the bench, and push and pull on my knee.

“Just took a knock,” I insist.

Coach Alvarez comes over and pulls off his headset. He doesn’t look at me, but at the trainer.

“How is he?”

“Fine,” I mutter.

The trainer nods. “He’s okay. Nothing’s torn. He may have strained some ligaments. We should put some weight on it before he goes back in.”

I stand and pace the sideline. “No. I had worse in prep school.”

“Keep checking him out. We’ll go with Sinclair,” Coach says into his headset and turns away.

What the…

I am fine!

No!

“Coach, I’m good!” I protest.

He lets out a gusty exhalation. “So you say. Walk it off for a few plays and we’ll let Sinclair take a shot.”

He leaves and I hunch over, pretending to test my knee as I suck air in.

This isn’t happening.

Sinclair already has his helmet on, and I grab him by his jersey.

“Hands off, Grandpa.”

“Don’t be a little shit for five minutes!”

His eyes widen.

My jaw pops. Emotion claws at my throat, disappointment in myself, that I’m not enough for this team. “Watch that line. They’re changing directions and pushing our own guys in my face. They’re fast, better than the last teams we played. Watch DeMarco—eighty-four. He plays dirty.”

His throat bobs. “Alright.”

“You nervous?”

He nods and turns to go, and I snag his sleeve. “Remember the basics. Don’t be a superstar. Play safe. Take control of your men and play—”

“Nothing fancy. Got it.”

“You’re learning.” I slap his helmet. “Go. Score. Win.”

The trainers have me running around the sidelines to keep my body ready to go, and my chest burns to get out there. By the time the clock has run down to the fourth quarter, my eyes keep darting to Coach. I’m here, I’m ready.