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Gray
Fourth quarter, third-and-ten with a minute on the clock, and my blood is pumping.
There is a sharp, metallic scent in my nose. The crowded stadium buzzes around me, a dull hum at this point compared to the ringing in my ears. Every inch of me hurts. My bones ache, my joints throb. I have a gash on my knee that stings. Sweat runs into my eyes. And I wouldn’t change a thing. My entire body is alive and working to accomplish one thing: winning this fucking game. One touchdown and we have it.
I head back to the huddle, and a defensive lineman shoulder-checks me as he passes, taking the moment to taunt, “Gonna bring you down, pussy boy.”
“I do love pussy.” I face him while walking backward, my arms wide. “But yours smells a little off. Better get that checked.”
Mr. No Humor points at me. “You’re going down.”
“Gotta catch me first. So far you’ve been tasting my cleats.” At that I jog off and join my guys, ignoring whatever else the dumbass has to say.
“Please tell me I get to smoke Ninety-Two’s ass,” I say to Cal as we gather at the forty.
Behind the grill of his face mask, Cal grins wide. “Funny you should say that, Grayson. Time to become the Gray Ghost.”
Gray Ghost. Because stopping me is as impossible as catching a ghost. Which is both apt and awesome.
“Gray Ghost it is then, Frost,” I tell Cal, giving him a nickname, as well. Because damn if he didn’t earn one today.
He nods. “Let’s put this game to bed, boys.”
Cal gives us the play, and I smile with teeth. For me, it’s a simple hook play, with a lot of intricate subterfuge on my teammates’ part to throw the defense off the scent. My body hums with anticipation.
At the line Mr. No Humor is glaring. “You ready for me, Blondie?”
I put my toe on the line, hunkering down low enough to let him think that I’ll charge him at the snap.
“Now, I’m gonna block your ass,” I tell him nice and conversational-like. “But that don’t mean I want your pussy, ’kay?”
The dumb ones fall the hardest. It’s almost too easy. He practically vibrates with fury. “Gonna run right over your pretty face.”
I blow him a kiss, pretending I’m paying attention to him, when really I’m breathing hard and deep, drawing in more oxygen to enrich my blood, moving my weight to the balls of my feet so I can take off. My body draws tight, like a crossbow about to be launched.
Cal’s voice rings out. “Hut!”
The world explodes into motion. Thinking I’m going to block, the lineman steps left, roaring with aggression. I step right. He blows right past me as I sprint down the open lane my guys have made for me. Blood rushes through my veins; everything is muffled grunts, bodies smashing into each other, and my pounding feet.
Ten yards out, I cut right, pivot, body angled toward Cal, and the ball sails into my waiting hands.
That’s all I need. Another burst of energy surges. Spinning, I sprint down the field, a lineman on my ass. In my periphery, a safety is barreling toward me. They don’t know what I know. Now it’s all about physics. Velocity, mass, momentum.
The lineman hooks his arms around me, intent on dragging me to the ground. But I’m bigger, stronger. Holding the ball low and tight, I hunker down, dropping my center of gravity. I drag him with me, the bulk of his body colliding into mine actually increasing my momentum. And when the safety hits us, he’s useless because he’s coming at the combined weight of me and the lineman. It’s too much mass for a guy his size to handle.
Their dead weight works against them, dragging them down my moving body. I break free. One, two, three tiptoe steps along the edge of the sideline, then I’m off again, maximum velocity toward the end zone. Footsteps pound behind me. Hot breath on my neck.
Fuck that noise. I run full-out. My lungs burn, my muscles scream, but I don’t stop.
Another safety comes at me from the left.
Still running, I reach back and strong-arm him, my hand at his collar. We’re barreling down the field, almost at the end zone. He falls in front of me, and I leap, my foot clipping his helmet.
Ball clenched tight, I flip head over ass. Don’t lose sight of that little orange cone, though. It’s right there. Just get the ball over.
With a grunt, I twist, fall toward it, body extended and arm outstretched, my hand holding on tight to the ball. Bodies slam into mine with explosions of pain and deep grunts.
We crash into the turf with bone-shaking force. I see stars. But I’ve done it.
