Read Online False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alison Hendricks
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scrimmage, getting into position again.
But the next drive is almost an exact repeat. The running back goes up the middle this time and picks up the first down, and the whole time I’m being held at bay like a dog on a leash.
When they start the passing plays, I’m virtually useless. And once they get inside the red zone, I’m pulled in favor of more pass coverage. It doesn’t seem to help, because Alabama scores, getting the PAT with ease and putting 7 on the board.
I take my spot on the bench while our offense comes out. I didn’t plan it that way, but I end up right next to Mills.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
I’m probably not that transparent. My excitement has already washed away. It’s replaced by a sense of frustration that’s slowly tightening. One drive isn’t enough to be worried about, but I’m already starting to feel like I’m woefully unprepared.
“Alabama’s got a rock-solid line. They get a lot of their yardage from running plays.”
“Feels like trying to run through a fucking wall,” I say.
He gives me what I can only describe as a sympathetic grin. “Yeah. It’ll feel worse tomorrow.”
The exchange doesn’t exactly fill me with a ton of hope, but the fact that Mills hasn’t completely closed me out after discovering he lost his starting position is encouraging.
The next time our defense takes the field, I try a different tactic. I’m built more for power than finesse, but I do my best to fake out my would-be blocker. It works the first time. I don’t get a perfect tackle, but I manage to trip the runner. His stumble allows him to be tackled by someone else.
But the next time I try something similar, they adapt. It’s lightning fast, and way more advanced than what I’ve seen so far.
Our offense does manage to put up some points, at least. It’s a slow back and forth, and while not every drive ends up getting points on the board, both teams have more successful drives than not. By the third quarter, we’re down 7, and I’m fucking exhausted.
Even with the grueling summer condition and the two-a-days leading up to this game, even with the all-nighters I pulled trying to get in a little more gym time while leaving room to study once school started, I’ve never been this tired. There’s something about a college game that’s just heads and shoulders above anything else I’ve ever done, and it’s taking a toll on me.
But I do my best to hunker down. The last thing I want is for a ball carrier to blow past me. If I can’t make them lose yards, at the very least I can keep them from getting a breakaway.
On 3rd and 4, though, Oakley gets into the best position to stop the running back. I see him grab the guy, even as I have a lineman in my face. The running back manages his momentum and tries hard to get the first down, but Oakley twists and does everything in his power to stop him.
He does, but not before I hear something snap.
I wince, feeling that one deep in my bones. When the play is called dead, Oakley doesn’t get up. He just sits on the field, holding his ankle. Fuck. He probably snapped a tendon trying to pull off that move.
Anderson and I get our arms underneath his and help lift him to his feet. The team medic meets us at the sidelines, and Oakley is taken off the field to the sound of applause. It’s fourth down now, and Alabama is bringing out their special teams. There’s no way Oakley will be able to go back out there, though, even if an offensive drive stands between us and another shot at defense.
As I wait on the bench, I become cautiously hopeful. Mills’ expression only changes when he’s reacting to a play—like the near-interception on third and long—but I’m probably nervous enough for the both of us.
Once Alabama punts it away, I’m leaning forward on the bench, waiting to see what Coach Garvey will say.
“Mills, take Oakley’s spot.”
It’s not said with any fanfare,
But the next drive is almost an exact repeat. The running back goes up the middle this time and picks up the first down, and the whole time I’m being held at bay like a dog on a leash.
When they start the passing plays, I’m virtually useless. And once they get inside the red zone, I’m pulled in favor of more pass coverage. It doesn’t seem to help, because Alabama scores, getting the PAT with ease and putting 7 on the board.
I take my spot on the bench while our offense comes out. I didn’t plan it that way, but I end up right next to Mills.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
I’m probably not that transparent. My excitement has already washed away. It’s replaced by a sense of frustration that’s slowly tightening. One drive isn’t enough to be worried about, but I’m already starting to feel like I’m woefully unprepared.
“Alabama’s got a rock-solid line. They get a lot of their yardage from running plays.”
“Feels like trying to run through a fucking wall,” I say.
He gives me what I can only describe as a sympathetic grin. “Yeah. It’ll feel worse tomorrow.”
The exchange doesn’t exactly fill me with a ton of hope, but the fact that Mills hasn’t completely closed me out after discovering he lost his starting position is encouraging.
The next time our defense takes the field, I try a different tactic. I’m built more for power than finesse, but I do my best to fake out my would-be blocker. It works the first time. I don’t get a perfect tackle, but I manage to trip the runner. His stumble allows him to be tackled by someone else.
But the next time I try something similar, they adapt. It’s lightning fast, and way more advanced than what I’ve seen so far.
Our offense does manage to put up some points, at least. It’s a slow back and forth, and while not every drive ends up getting points on the board, both teams have more successful drives than not. By the third quarter, we’re down 7, and I’m fucking exhausted.
Even with the grueling summer condition and the two-a-days leading up to this game, even with the all-nighters I pulled trying to get in a little more gym time while leaving room to study once school started, I’ve never been this tired. There’s something about a college game that’s just heads and shoulders above anything else I’ve ever done, and it’s taking a toll on me.
But I do my best to hunker down. The last thing I want is for a ball carrier to blow past me. If I can’t make them lose yards, at the very least I can keep them from getting a breakaway.
On 3rd and 4, though, Oakley gets into the best position to stop the running back. I see him grab the guy, even as I have a lineman in my face. The running back manages his momentum and tries hard to get the first down, but Oakley twists and does everything in his power to stop him.
He does, but not before I hear something snap.
I wince, feeling that one deep in my bones. When the play is called dead, Oakley doesn’t get up. He just sits on the field, holding his ankle. Fuck. He probably snapped a tendon trying to pull off that move.
Anderson and I get our arms underneath his and help lift him to his feet. The team medic meets us at the sidelines, and Oakley is taken off the field to the sound of applause. It’s fourth down now, and Alabama is bringing out their special teams. There’s no way Oakley will be able to go back out there, though, even if an offensive drive stands between us and another shot at defense.
As I wait on the bench, I become cautiously hopeful. Mills’ expression only changes when he’s reacting to a play—like the near-interception on third and long—but I’m probably nervous enough for the both of us.
Once Alabama punts it away, I’m leaning forward on the bench, waiting to see what Coach Garvey will say.
“Mills, take Oakley’s spot.”
It’s not said with any fanfare,
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