32. Chapter 32

T he locker room was a whirlwind of noise and chaos, the air charged with a mixture of frustration and determination. We are up by one touchdown against our rival, the Lafayette Gators, as we play in the season's biggest game. There is no love lost between our two schools, as each year, we battle it out for bragging rights until the next season. Currently, CTU is on a five-game win streak against the Gators, and we have no desire to end that streak today.

From where I'm lying on the trainer's table, I watch as my teammates pace the room, their cleats clinking against the tile, while others sit with their heads between their shoulders. The energy is palpable as everyone is feeling the pressure to win. The sound of ripping draws my attention as I glance at my feet where the athletic trainer works on taping up my ankle.

With two minutes left in the half, I jumped for a catch and came down wrong on the defender's foot, tweaking my ankle. The trainer wanted to work on it then, but I refused to leave the field until halftime. There was no way I was showing my cards to the defense and letting them think I was hurt.

"We need to tighten up our defense." JP sits with his elbows resting on his thighs as he stares around the room.

"The blitz is killing me," our center adds .

Grant stands up from his locker bench and moves over to the whiteboard. Uncapping a marker, he jots down x's and o's, symbolizing our offense and defense. He points his pen as he taps the marker against the board. "We've got to exploit their weak side, and we've got to tighten up our defense to stop giving them easy yards."

Internally, I smile as I watch my friend take charge and coach us based on what he's seen on the field. Grant Campbell has the coaching gene like his dad. He has a way of seeing the field, understanding the players, and providing feedback in a likable manner while still making sure the point isn't missed. Grant will make an excellent coach one day.

The coaches enter from their adjoining conference room. Coach Campbell claps his hands as the room silences, and he captures everyone's attention. "Gather around and listen up!"

"We've got to stop letting them push us around out there," our defensive coordinator says. "This is our house, and they're controlling it like it's theirs."

"It's a dog fight out there, men. One that they're more hungry for." Coach's voice is stern with a mix of authority and encouragement. "This isn't how we play our game. We're playing theirs, and we are lucky the score isn't worse."

Other coaches give their feedback as we work out our game plan for the second half. The trainer finishes taping my ankle and helps me get my cleat on my foot, where she added an additional wrap of tape. Luckily, it isn't anything serious, and I can continue playing in the second half. Last season, I got a real sense of winning, and I'm hungry for it.

"This is what we work for." Coach's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Rivalry games are challenging. They bring out the best in everyone and our desires to win. We have to keep fighting and dig deep, men. These games are won by heart and grit. Who has the drive to win?"

"We do!" Harris shouts, standing on his feet. His eye-black is smeared down his face from sweat. Everyone follows his lead as we circle up. "This is our house! This is our game! Eagles on three. One. Two. Three."

"Eagles!" Cheers follow our shouts and screams as we work to hype each other up.

As I walk down the aisle, Coach stops me with a hand on my shoulder. "You good, Riggsby?"

"Hell yeah, Coach!"

He slaps my shoulder pad. "That's what I like to hear."

Jogging through the tunnel, we enter the field with the crowd's roar. A new energy buzzed around our sidelines, and the halftime pep talk was doing its job as a new determination set in. With the fuel of the boisterous crowd buzzing in our helmets, we were ready when the referee blew his whistle, signaling the start of the third quarter.

As the ball sailed high in the air, Xavier Boyd stood in the end zone as he waited. Catching the high kick, he took off like a rocket, weaving through the crowds of players, all desperate to get the most out of the play. Taken down on the forty-three-yard line, it was time to line up for our first chance on offense.

Grant slaps my helmet as we run out together. Taking my position on the far side, my fingers twitch as I wait for the ball to be snapped. Harris's voice cuts through the noise as he counts us down. The ball is snapped, and I lurch forward to block the defensive back. With a slant route, Grant is open down the middle, and we pick up a quick five yards.

The opening drive continues this way—short plays to pick up a few yards each down as we work the clock in our favor. With us controlling the score, we have the patience to take our time. The moment of desperation hasn't hit us yet. After running a full six minutes off the clock down on the four-yard line, Harris snaps the ball as I push the defender closer to the end zone before spinning and catching the flying ball. It was a textbook play from the trust I have with our quarterback. We both knew I'd get open. All Harris had to do was have the ball in the air waiting for me.

Tossing the ball, I break out the dance moves as I celebrate the touchdown. The guys all run over to me and smack my helmet, causing the noise to ring in my ears.

"Hell, fucking, yeah!" Harris yells as he jumps on me.

"I told you, I got you." I chuckle as we jog off as the special teams take the field. More cheers and congratulations are said as I unclip my helmet and walk toward the bench.

With the extra point sailing through the uprights, we take a twenty-one to seven lead with less than nine minutes remaining in the third quarter.

As the game progresses, the tension on the field is tangible. The Gators have brought the game within four points as we head into the fourth quarter. Our defense is struggling to keep the Gators' offense in front of them. Adrenaline courses as tempers flare. More than once, we've had to step in and break up heated discussions on the sidelines. Everyone wants to blame someone else. Lafayette has done their job of getting into our heads.

Taking the field, it's not long before I'm jogging back off. Their blitz couldn't be held, as the added pressure of the collapsing pocket had Harris throwing an interception.

"Keep your head up, Harris." I nudge his shoulder as he moves to the sideline, head hanging between his shoulders. "That wasn't your fault back there. "

His eyes flick to mine, and I can see his frustration. If I know Harris as well as I think I do, I know he's blaming himself. He's letting the inner voices take over. The demonic voices are telling him he's not good enough, that last season was a fluke, and that he's overrated. They are all bullshit things the media has been feeding him for the past four months. Lies that have started breaking down his spirit.

It's Lafayette's turn to control the clock. With a mixture of short runs and passes, the Gators start working their offense to take as much time off the clock as possible. Anxiety swirls in my stomach as I pace the sidelines. With each pass, I watch with bated breath as I pray we force a turnover. JP stands on the line in his defensive back position as he fights for position.

"That's a hold! That's a hold!" My voice is mixed with my teammates as we yell that a blatant hold on JP wasn't called. The crowd erupts in chaos as they boo the missed penalty. With Lafayette on the seven-yard line, I squeeze the face mask of my helmet I'm holding as I watch the ball soar through the air. With an outstretched hand in the end zone's back corner, we watch as the Gators' wide receiver brings down an insane catch. On his tiptoes, he secures the ball without stepping out of bounds.

Fuck.

Coach calls the offense together as Lafayette sails their extra point, putting them up by four. We have to score a touchdown to win.

"This is it," he begins, looking each of us in the eye. "Remain calm, quiet the noise, and focus on our game. No matter what, you've worked your asses off. Now, let's go win this fight!"

Clasping my chin strap and jogging onto the field, I felt like I was gearing up for a battle. A battle to win the war and keep the people happy. Our teammates, our coaches, our fans, and the university. Everyone is relying on us right now. The pressure is suffocating as I fight to keep the shaking from my hands. Chest heavy and determination in my eyes, I stare at the defensive back lining up across from me as he prepares to make the final minutes of the game my own personal hell.

With every snap, every yard, the anxiety tightened its grip on my chest. Our drive down the field was a desperate race against the clock, every yard a tiny victory. The sideline buzzed with anxiety as the crowd worked to hype us up, but I drowned it all out. I had to focus on what was in front of me. Even if he was a six-foot-six, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound muscle wall determined to make my life miserable.

Harris dropped back as Grant and I ran our routes as the final minute ran down as if our lives depended on it. Cutting toward the sidelines, I braced myself for the inevitable crash of the defender's body as I watched a perfect arched ball sail through the air in our last attempt to get out of bounds and stop the clock.

Jumping in the air, I climb an invisible ladder and stretch with all my might to catch the ball. Too bad the defender went with me. As the ball descended toward my outstretched arms, the defender's wingspan was simply longer than mine. I watched as the ball bounced off his fingertips and sailed out of bounds. Crashing to the ground, hope deflated as disappointment crushed my soul.

The final whistle blew, signaling the end of the game and our winning streak against the Lafayette Gators. An almost silence covered the stadium as everyone stood stunned. My body slumped where it was lying on the ground, and I took a few deep breaths before getting to my feet. Glancing around the field, I was met with disappointed teammates who stood with their shoulders slumped, mirroring mine.

In the blink of an eye, everything we worked for was simply over. Our chance of getting to the national championship game was gone. The promise of playing for another conference championship looks to have vanished. Now, it's a waiting game to see how the other teams do this weekend. Devastation crushes my soul.

All the hard work, all the sacrifice, it felt like it had all been for nothing.

This loss hurt.