Chapter Thirty-Five

Justin

"ASSHOLES!" HOLCOMBE YELLED and pointed to the whiteboard: forty-six days since sacked . "I swear to God, if this isn't forty-seven tomorrow, I'm asking Coach for an extra day of practice for the rest of the season."

The sack board had become a strange team motivator that even the coaching staff had gotten behind.

"You look like you might puke," McReedy said, and Justin stood and headed to the bathroom as McReedy laughed his ass off.

After Justin swore he tasted his intestines, he knew McReedy would tell Ethan about this. When there was no way he had a thing left for the field, he cleaned himself up, brushed his teeth, and rejoined his team.

"Now that the QB has shared that sound effect with us…" Coach Richardson said, and then he got serious. "We are better than they are. We've worked harder. We've got the right components on this team to go all the way. No stupid mistakes, no penalties. Play clean and by the rules. Trust the plan and the calls…"

The building began to rumble with the roar of the crowd. Justin looked up; the ceiling practically vibrated, and Miller bailed next.

"Anyone else?" Coach Nellis asked, then gave his pregame speech.

The crowd was insane, and Justin stared at the chaos, the sea of color and the screaming. At ten thousand times the college crowd, the noise was so powerful he could feel it through his feet and into his bones. Justin hoped like hell he'd be able to even hear the plays in his helmet. Then McReedy nudged him to go.

And without thinking, like it was second nature, Justin ran out onto the field. The crowd went deafening as they cheered. Justin made it to the sideline and realized he'd never find Ethan. He searched around for their section and the bright green neon waving posterboard with a big E on it. Justin held up his hand with a number one, their signal that he knew where he was.

Ethan looked like a dot, but he was there. Justin breathed and nodded to himself. Now he could play. And the screams turned into a hum, rain on repeat, and rolling waves. Thunder and the wind. Ambient noise he could detach himself from. Everything—the field, the opponents, the scoreboard, the play chart, his teammates—all became crystal clear.

Throw to Ethan . Justin repeated the internal mantra that had worked for him since the Combine and in every practice since then.

"We got this," McReedy said, and Justin nodded, too in the zone to speak at the moment. They watched the kickoff and return and then ran out onto the field.

The first play, straight out of the shoot, was what Justin had asked Coach Richardson for in their pregame meeting. Justin had explained he wanted to fire off a bullet from the start with a bold first move, scoring a touchdown with Jones. Jones, sitting next to him, had nodded. Justin said he wanted them to come out strong with a loud and clear message to the world. Jones had been a nervous wreck after the meeting, and Justin just threw an arm over his shoulder and told him he better catch it, hang on to it, and run like hell.

McReedy snapped, and Justin faked, stepped back as Jones broke away and got open. He fired it off, visualizing Ethan's goofy-ass running around wildly and having to put it in his palms. Justin waited as everyone took off downfield, and Jones, palms open, closed them around the ball and turned on the speed. The crowd was up and going berserk, and Justin held up his one for Ethan. He hustled off the field for the field goal unit, swallowing the fear that rose up in his throat, hardly believing they'd pulled it off with all the nerves.

"Holy shit!" Jones said, still holding the ball. "I'm keepin' this. This shit is mine. This is mine. My ball. They can't have it. Ain't nobody taking it away from me."

Coach barked out a laugh and shook his head at the ref. "First NFL game, first play, first touchdown. He's keepin' it. But you give it to the trainer, Jones. Let's play with another one for a while." He gave him a reassuring pat.

Jones, still heaving, looked at Justin. "It was just like you said. Just like you said."

Justin pointed to the trainer.

Jones turned. "This is mine."

"I got you, man, I swear." The trainer reached for the ball, and Jones released it, seeming to shake it off.

"Did that really just happen?" Jones asked Coach Richardson, who then pointed at the big screen and replay.

"You made your point," Richardson said to Justin, but he was fighting the smile so hard. "This is the next play…" and Justin dropped his head and nodded. "Don't forget what we talked about."

"I got it; saving it, Coach." Justin turned to their defense on the field, waving off the tablet held out for him to review the previous play. He didn't want to watch unless he screwed up.

The opponents came out playing smart, but they were intimidated, and that was just what Justin wanted in that QB's head. They went for a field goal, and then Justin put on his helmet.

Each time they scored, he held up his finger for Ethan. By the third touchdown, the crowd did it, too, and Justin knew Ethan was dying over it, knowing only he knew what it meant. That he was Justin's one love. His one and only. And Justin played hard for his love of the game and for his love for Ethan.

"I love this fucking game!" Justin yelled, and his offensive line oorah ed back as he called out the next play. Another long pass and Miller's helmet was an inch from his cleat as he held down the intended sack. Justin hauled him up, patted him, and watched as Chastain was taken down.

They raced downfield and got into position. Justin passed off the ball behind him and wasn't shocked by the pile up three yards from the line. Their defense was determined, him , their target. Justin could practically hear his offensive line growling; it wasn't going to happen.

Hernandez, with the highest vertical jump, other than Justin, understood as Justin called the play. He eyeballed Jones and nodded, and Jones nodded back. The offensive line shifted. Justin faked to Jones, who was already in the endzone, covered, and then threw high to Hernandez, also surrounded, who jumped with the defensive player, outreached him, and brought down the ball with a tuck and roll.

Justin roared. It sounded animal, and he shot his hand and single finger up before running in. The crowd was out of control as the offense surrounded Hernandez, who, like Jones, was not giving up the ball.

They were quick to get off the field, and Coach bitched, "Damn rookies." But he was riding the high over the three balls he would already be paying for.

"Call Wilson," Justin yelled out to one of the referees. "We're going to need some more footballs."

The ref fought his grin as special teams sprinted on for the field goal. It was good, and Justin breathed at the scoreboard. Their lead was impressive, and the half was already on them as they jogged down their tunnel screaming, hollering, and whooping like it was peewee league on a Saturday afternoon and not the NFL.

Jones, Chastain, and Hernandez all had a ball. Justin squinted at Miller.

"No, I can't handle it," Miller said, nearly begging him not to.

"But how cool would that be? Just block, get in the endzone, and catch it, man. We'll switch you to an eligible receiver. Whatever you do, don't close your eyes."

"Don't, Justin, I'm serious," Miller mumbled.

"Coach?" Justin said.

"Here we go," McReedy barked, and everyone quieted down.

"We got a play where Miller can score, so all rookies get a game-one ball?" Justin asked.

"Are you going to do the interview after?" Coach fired back, and Justin nodded.

Richardson turned to the board and scratched out the play. "We got it?"

They all yelled.

"It's all fun and games after this one," Justin said to Miller. "Just open your hands, and I'll put the ball in them. Just remember to hold that ball, and don't drop it."

"I hate you so much right now," Miller said.

"You are making my game-one NFL dream come true, man. Do not let me down," Justin said, and they went through their ritual, then headed back onto the field.

*

"JUSTIN, ARE WE missing something here? What was the objective tonight?" a reporter asked during the post-game press conference.

Justin grinned. "I just thought it would be cool if all the rookie players who played tonight got their first NFL game, first score, first ball. Jones got his, Chastain, then Hernandez, and I looked at Miller." Justin shook his head. "Who's about ready to kill me, but I said how cool would it be, and we made it happen. And I've got the game ball, so that's all five of us. It just doesn't get any better than that until we start talking about the Super Bowl."

Hands flew into the air.

"So you think a rookie quarterback can take this team all the way?"

"Watch me," Justin said, and pens scribbled.

"It was a brave move to come out with a long pass for the first play."

"I wanted to make an impression and show everyone what Jones and this team can do," Justin said. "Let every opponent know from the start that I'm here to win. No one loves this game more than me."

"It's been rumored that you aren't a fan of the media," a brave young reporter said, bolting up above another. She appeared to be barely out of college compared to the veterans in the room and one of only two other females.

"I'm not at all. I've made that clear. But thank you for your question, and I'll give you an answer I haven't given anyone else." Justin paused. "You ready?" She nodded. "I like good reporting and fair, professional journalists, not ones who chase me down after a class or yell at me in the grocery store parking lot. Ones who get aggressive. Those experiences in college turned me against the media. But I'll make you a deal; treat me with respect and professionalism, and I'll do the same and see if you can change my opinion."

She nodded again, mouthed a thank you , and sat down.

"Who are you with?" Justin asked.

" Newsweek ," she said as she stood back up.

"Are you a good one?"

"I am," she said confidently.

"Talk to our media director if you want an interview, and I'll do it," Justin said, and she took her seat again.

Justin answered one more question about whether he missed being a receiver, and he said he was happy in his position. Then he tilted his head at Jones, and they got the point.

Coach Richardson seemed pleased.

Justin listened and observed all the reporters, picked out the ones he would never trust, and noticed the young reporter still writing and eagerly paying attention as Miller managed through his answer.

"One last question for Justin," a male reporter said. He held up his arm and finger, imitating Justin's score celebration. "The fans loved this, but what does it mean?"

"We're number one, THE number one team," Justin said as the flashes went off.

"Why do you refuse interviews?" His media director smiled like she could kiss him and kill him all at the same time as she escorted him down the back hallway.

"I'm giving the Newsweek newb one," Justin said.

"Oh, I know." She shook her head at him. "But you're also doing the interview with Sports Illustrated ."

"What do I get?"

She just laughed as she pointed to the chair for him to sit. "I'm going to get your girl," she said, flustered but on a media high.