There were times when I thought I had been put on this earth specifically to play football. Under the heat of Friday night lights, I was dubbed an American God. I conjured storms with a cadence and set fire to the earth beneath my feet. I would crush any mortal that dared to oppose me.

Or so the story goes.

The ground seemed to vibrate underneath me as the damn near entire population of our little town was crammed into the stands behind me, bleachers rattling and crowd noise soaring.

As I stood on the sidelines, I glanced up at the scoreboard, lit up with my first conquest of the season. Home: 42 Visitor: 3. Forty seconds left in the third quarter. The sound of Anthony's voice soared over the crowd noise, diverting my attention back to the field.

Despite the subtle resentment festering between Anthony and I, there was a reason he was captain of the defense. He stood over the other defensive linemen, the white stitching of his number 65 bright against the midnight black of his jersey, pointing at the far receiver stacked up on the left and shouted, "Base! Base 3!"

That meant they had to switch the defensive play they went onto the field with. The guards shifted, and this quarterback didn't have Anthony fooled for a second. The quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass, quickly dumping it off to the far left receiver, only a yard or two off the line of scrimmage. Sure enough, Anthony was right there to meet him and plowed the poor guy into the turf. Loss of 2 yards.

The stadium erupted into cheers as the other team's offensive dragged themselves off the field. The moment I stepped onto the field, it felt like a bolt of lightning had shot through me, and every pat on the shoulder by a passing teammate in transition was a crackling aftershock. The problem with being made to feel larger than life is when you started to get too big, too excessive, too much of everything that makes you feel out of place in a place that made you. All the lights and all the sounds enveloped me like a shroud, and for a moment I couldn't tell if it was trying to protect me, or suffocate me.

Coach Knox rapped his hand on my helmet, bringing me back down to earth. "There's been holes in the left side of their line all game. You like a 28 sweep?"

I pulled at the mouthguard I had lodged in my facemask and nodded.

"And if you've got a guy getting jammed inside, what do you do?"

"Throw outside."

He paused, and the noise of the stadium swirled around us as he gave me an amused smirk. "No shame in letting the clock run out, son."

I looked back at the scoreboard again, with 20 seconds remaining in the quarter lit up in big glowing letters. I chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"

I jogged onto the field and was enveloped into the waiting huddle of my offense. "28 sweep, okay? 28 sweep, lets burn these fuckers."

The guys hollered in agreement, and I glanced around the huddle one last time, making eye contact with Chris as he gave me a confident nod.

We broke the huddle and took our places at the line of scrimmage. Chris lined up by himself on the far left side, and we overloaded the right side with two more receivers and a tight end, forcing them to cover Chris one-on-one. It was a mismatch in every sense of the word - Chris would burn this safety before the kid could even blink. The play clock on the scoreboard ticked away as I called the play and took the snap.

People say when you die, you watch your life flash before your eyes. Well, whoever said that was never a quarterback, because the moment you take the snap, the entire world around you falls away and only the football field exists. Space and time were mine to control.

Sure enough, Chris had the safety beat and was already 10 yards downfield. Stay in the pocket. Effortless release. Flick of the wrist. Pass completed. First down. American God strikes again.

The quarter ended, and a wave of silence washed over the stadium as all the guys on the sideline held up the number four with their fingers. Scary hours were upon us.

A new quarter meant time for us to reconvene on the sidelines. Kids brought us orange squeeze bottles, and I poured an entire bottle down the back of my jersey.

"You're done Gunther," Coach Knox called in my direction. "Bench."

"What?" I huffed out, yanking my helmet off and releasing a waterfall of sweat from my forehead. "You can't pull me, I'm in the zone."

"Are you and I watching the same game?" Coach Knox bit back in his twangy southern drawl. "It's 42-3, I'm not having my star quarterback get hurt when he's got no business being in the game any longer."

I clenched my fists, and maybe it was just from the heat of the lights, but my blood boiled. "Just let me finish this drive. I'll score. I promise."

Coach Knox kept his back to me, running his hand down the play sheet. "Run Dakota. You get one shot."

I gave him a curt nod and threw my helmet back on, then jogged back out to the field. One shot, 25 yards.

Just as we got set, a loud crash from the distance stole my attention for just a moment, but one moment lost in football could turn the tide.

I wasn't ready when the ball was snapped, and it hit me in the chest before ricocheting to the ground. Panic was a luxury in a football game, and even though I had plenty of pretty, shiny, expensive things, panic was something I couldn't afford.

The play was busted, so I scooped the ball up and let my momentum carry me forward, tucking the ball under my arm and weaving myself through the defensive line with the precision of a fighter pilot. White hot adrenaline pulsed through my veins as my cleats punctured the turf. 15 yards. 10 yards. Run. Run. Run.

When I saw the glaring white line of the end zone, I loaded myself like a gun, ready to fire. Safety off. Dive forward. Keep that stupid promise and fucking score. Stay a god for one more night.

But even gods fall sometimes.

It happened so fast, I wasn't registering the impact until I was already on the ground. First my knees, then my head. The force of a hit that came from two directions rattled every bone in my body, but when I went to move, a piercing, agonizing pain erupted in my left shoulder.

Something that sounded like a mangled yelp permeated all the usual commotion. It took me a moment to realize that sound came from me. I'd left my body, soul and all. Whoever's body that was, he wasn't getting up. Trainers in black jackets swarmed like locust, and it felt like someone had dropped a 500 pound weight on my chest. It wasn't until Chris appeared above me that I found my voice.

"Did I score?"

i don't wanna fake it till i make it
i don't need to see it to believe it
i don't need to touch it, i can taste it

estella / kennyhoopla

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I know she's a shortie, but let me tell you writing a chapter entirely comprised of in-depth football action is HARD, and this took me longer than I'd like to admit. If there's anything about this that's unclear to you or you'd like explained more, let me know. I'm still trying to find a middle ground between realism and common knowledge terms for all these football scenes.

ps; pls don't make euphoria references, I'm not particularly fond of that show (unpopular opinion I know) and the only reason I use gifs from it is because their football jerseys are black and so are dallas and crew's, so it's all for the aesthetic, obvi.

let me know your thoughts/predictions/etc!

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