Read Online False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alison Hendricks
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but I can’t help but grin. All of the frustration from earlier is suddenly tamped down, and my excitement surges again. Mills puts on his helmet, looking like a soldier who’s just doing his duty, but I can see the subtle change in him. His shoulders aren’t as tense and his head is held a little higher.
Of course, there isn’t any kind of alchemy happening when we both take the field. The first few plays go the same as they have all game. The whole first drive is that way, even if we force them to go for the field goal.
Mills and I play hard, but their offensive line is right there, keeping us back from their ball carriers. All it takes is one really good play, though, and even as time winds down in the fourth quarter, I know we’ve got a chance. The two-minute warning hasn’t been called yet. We’re trailing by 7 again. If we can just halt their momentum—or better yet, bowl them over—we’ll have a chance.
Alabama goes for a passing play, though, and my hopes dwindle a bit. Their QB has done a good job of getting rid of the ball quickly.
Mills and I are the only linebackers left a few feet behind the line. He glances at me, dipping his head. The sun hits his helmet, glinting off the plastic. When he tilts his head back up, I can see a fierce determination in his eyes.
The ball is snapped, and I see Mills swing outside. This is a play we ran during practice. The one that had us joking about shitty ‘90s movies. Now’s our chance to put it into practice where it counts, and I’ve got just enough hope left that I’m convinced we can pull it off.
I cut past the defenders, making it look like I’m running interference on a slant play. The QB falls back and looks for a receiver and I swing inside, getting past the line of blockers. One of them tries to break free and stop me, but they’re too late.
Mills is already there.
The QB doesn’t even see him coming.
His arm is pulled back mid throw, and Mills strips it the rest of the way. My gaze seizes on it, and before I can think about the fact that I’m about to get trampled, I dive. My gloves connect with the ball and I pull it into myself before I hit the ground hard.
The whistle blares repeatedly. I can feel a knee jabbing into my back, the weight of some guy on top of me. I don’t let go of the ball even as he tries to wrestle it away from me. I don’t let go until the ref gets in between us.
When I lift my head, I don’t see a little yellow flag in front of my face. I see cleats rising a few inches off the ground. Someone’s jumping. And shouting.
The whole stadium is shouting, and when a strong hand reaches down and helps me to my feet, I can only guess that we have possession of the ball. A slow grin spreads across my face, and I look to see who helped me up. Mills stands in front of me, his eyes alight, and he uses his leverage to pull me to him.
We bump pads and helmets, he grabs me in a bro-hug, and still my heart races.
“We better pick out that name quick,” he says, practically having to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd. “Gotta have something to tell the journalists.”
I laugh at that, and Mills has his arm slung around my shoulders as we head back to the bench to let the offense capitalize on our gain. I know it doesn’t mean anything. Just one athlete congratulating another.
But somewhere deep inside, this affects me more than anything else that’s happened today.
11
Dante
I n the last two minutes of the game, our offense went on to close the gap, and we won by a field goal in OT.
I always forget how centralized small Eastshore is, but I was reminded when we walked out of the locker room a couple hours after the game.
University Road was packed with people. Not just students and alumni who’d been at the game, but others who made their way downtown to support us. We were driven—with a police escort, no less—to the main campus, and paraded out in front of a waiting crowd. They had us stand in front of a
Of course, there isn’t any kind of alchemy happening when we both take the field. The first few plays go the same as they have all game. The whole first drive is that way, even if we force them to go for the field goal.
Mills and I play hard, but their offensive line is right there, keeping us back from their ball carriers. All it takes is one really good play, though, and even as time winds down in the fourth quarter, I know we’ve got a chance. The two-minute warning hasn’t been called yet. We’re trailing by 7 again. If we can just halt their momentum—or better yet, bowl them over—we’ll have a chance.
Alabama goes for a passing play, though, and my hopes dwindle a bit. Their QB has done a good job of getting rid of the ball quickly.
Mills and I are the only linebackers left a few feet behind the line. He glances at me, dipping his head. The sun hits his helmet, glinting off the plastic. When he tilts his head back up, I can see a fierce determination in his eyes.
The ball is snapped, and I see Mills swing outside. This is a play we ran during practice. The one that had us joking about shitty ‘90s movies. Now’s our chance to put it into practice where it counts, and I’ve got just enough hope left that I’m convinced we can pull it off.
I cut past the defenders, making it look like I’m running interference on a slant play. The QB falls back and looks for a receiver and I swing inside, getting past the line of blockers. One of them tries to break free and stop me, but they’re too late.
Mills is already there.
The QB doesn’t even see him coming.
His arm is pulled back mid throw, and Mills strips it the rest of the way. My gaze seizes on it, and before I can think about the fact that I’m about to get trampled, I dive. My gloves connect with the ball and I pull it into myself before I hit the ground hard.
The whistle blares repeatedly. I can feel a knee jabbing into my back, the weight of some guy on top of me. I don’t let go of the ball even as he tries to wrestle it away from me. I don’t let go until the ref gets in between us.
When I lift my head, I don’t see a little yellow flag in front of my face. I see cleats rising a few inches off the ground. Someone’s jumping. And shouting.
The whole stadium is shouting, and when a strong hand reaches down and helps me to my feet, I can only guess that we have possession of the ball. A slow grin spreads across my face, and I look to see who helped me up. Mills stands in front of me, his eyes alight, and he uses his leverage to pull me to him.
We bump pads and helmets, he grabs me in a bro-hug, and still my heart races.
“We better pick out that name quick,” he says, practically having to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd. “Gotta have something to tell the journalists.”
I laugh at that, and Mills has his arm slung around my shoulders as we head back to the bench to let the offense capitalize on our gain. I know it doesn’t mean anything. Just one athlete congratulating another.
But somewhere deep inside, this affects me more than anything else that’s happened today.
11
Dante
I n the last two minutes of the game, our offense went on to close the gap, and we won by a field goal in OT.
I always forget how centralized small Eastshore is, but I was reminded when we walked out of the locker room a couple hours after the game.
University Road was packed with people. Not just students and alumni who’d been at the game, but others who made their way downtown to support us. We were driven—with a police escort, no less—to the main campus, and paraded out in front of a waiting crowd. They had us stand in front of a
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