2 seconds left. 4th quarter. 26-26. 4th and goal. 9 yards to end zone. All I hear is the crowd screaming. My coach screaming. Teammates asking me what we're going to do. To be honest, I have absolutely no idea. I should know exactly what to do. This isn't my first time in this position. I'm QB1 for crying out loud. Okay. Deep breath. "Guys. Guys. We're gonna fake the run. 35. I'm faking to you. Wilson. I'm passin' it to you. Everyone else, keep me safe and Wilson open. Ready?" "BREAK!" I swear. This better work. We set up on the line. 55 in front of me, 35 behind. Wilson off to my left. I yell the play off. Deep breath. "HUT!" I scream. 55 gives me the ball. 2 steps back. The crowd is screaming, I can't hear myself think. Fake the run. 0 seconds on the clock. Look to Wilson. Crap, covered. Deep breaths. One, two. Look to my right. No receiver. Look to Wilson again, still covered. All I see is the guys in front me illuminating in the bright stadium lights. I look for an opening. Slightly off to my left there's a running lane. I fake it to Wilson and I run. 8 yards till a touchdown. 7. Linebacker coming at me. I sprint. Just missed the tackle. 6. 5. 4 yards. 2 guys running towards me. Few more yards. Not gonna make it if I keep running. I jump and dive. I land hard on my back. Then get the wind knocked out of me. I stare at the lights surrounding me waiting for the cheers. There's no cheering. There are no guys celebrating a win. I look to the ref. Washout. No touchdown. I look to the ball. Sitting right on the line. Half in the end zone, half out. No touchdown.
"Hill!" That's me. "Coach."
"What kind of play was that?"
"Supposed to be a fake to 35 Torres, then a pass to 18 Wilson sir."
"That's what that was?! Looked to me like you guys had no idea what you were doing!"
"Yessir."
"You listen to me number 9. You are QB1 for one reason. 'Cause you can throw the ball. So either, listen to our plays and throw it where you're s'posed to or let Martinez take over. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." No way am I ever letting Martinez step on that field. No way is he ever gonna be in that huddle, passing to Wilson, under pressure. Not in my time on this team. "You good 9?" Aaron Torres. Number 35. "That looked harsh."
"Hey. You know, the norm. You do what we say, or you're off and Martinez is on."
"Well, I mean, Coach has got a point. You can't run for the life of you."
"Thanks Torres."
"Anytime 9."
"Wilson!" I called.
"Hill! Torres!" Joel Wilson started running over.
"Where were ya? You disappeared out there." I remarked.
"Shut it Ryder. Like you were any better. Couldn't see ya under that dog pile of pads." He smirked.
"My arm is better than my legs."
"You got that right Ryder." Torres added in.
"Ryder, honey!" I heard.
"'Ryder, honey!'" Joel and Aaron echoed.
"Shut up you two. Ya mom?"
"Time to go! Your sisters are waiting."
"Coming!" I yelled at mom. "Save me!" I whispered to Joel and Aaron.
"You didn't save us! We sure ain't savin' you." Aaron commented. They both laughed. I rolled my eyes and that only proved to make them laugh louder. The two asses. I turned and ran to the car.
"Good game Ryder."
"No, it wasn't mom! Did you not see the scoreboard and the last play? Coach threatened to put Martinez out!"
YOU ARE READING
Friday Night Midnights
Teen FictionAn average high school quarterback on the field and at school. At home? The youngest of three, trying to live out the dead father's dream, a sister in constant contact with the police, and only Friday Night Midnights to get through.
