Dream On by Keith Stacey

Author:Keith, Stacey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-11-07T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Third down, deep in the pocket, Mason looked downfield for running back Jerome Bloski. Around him he could hear the grunting of his offensive line being sacked by Philadelphia’s monster defense. The glare of the stadium lights made it hard to see, but then Bloski appeared, wide open with maybe ten seconds left before impact by Philly’s Andre Tanner, fastest safety in the NFL.

Mason launched the ball in a tight spiral and tracked it as it soared up, up, constellated by the twinkle of flash cameras, and then Bloski caught the ball, tucked it under his arm and ran like hell toward the goal posts.

Even as one of Philly’s three-hundred-pound linebackers clawed his way toward him, Mason kept his eyes fixed on Bloski. Andre also stayed focused on Bloski, legs whipping across the field. Mason dug his cleats into the turf and braced for the sack he knew was coming, just as he saw Bloski go down at the thirty yard line.

The beefy linebacker broke free and tackled Mason head first. Together they crashed to the ground right as the ref’s whistle ended the play.

Winded and hurting, Mason got up and scanned the field for penalty flags. Coach Lemery stood next to the bench, growling orders into his headset. About fifty feet behind him, the dancing Philadelphia mascot incited a roaring crowd.

Temple loped over, helmet in hand, sweat sheeting his face. “Fuck. Are they going to let us run it in?”

Mason doubted it. He glanced over at special teams kicker Franklin Hoff, who was already warming up, and his frustration mounted. The score shouldn’t have been this close. It shouldn’t be the middle of the goddamn fourth quarter, 13 Lone Stars, 14 Philadelphia. And the truth was, the team had him to blame for it. Coach Lemery was right when he’d shouted at him during halftime, “Get your head in the game, Hannigan. No one paid money to come here and watch you fuck this up.”

The signal came for offense to leave the field. Hoff trotted out to the thirty yard line with the rest of special teams. Now it was Mason’s turn to sit and watch. He burned to get back out there and make this right.

Temple muttered, “If Hoff misses, we’re screwed.”

“A game is never over ’til it’s over,” Mason said.

“Unless defense recovers the ball, we aren’t going back out there and you know it. Look at the clock, man.”

Mason didn’t have to look at the clock. Every second that ticked by scraped his nerves. “Let’s just wait and see what happens, okay?”

The Philly crowd went wild, booing while Hoff made a few practice kicks. The holder, Mahmet Khan, knelt behind the line of scrimmage. Mason gripped the edge of the bench and waited for the snap. There it was—the ball arced up and the holder caught it, placing it squarely in front of the kicker. Hoff drilled it hard and the ball soared, hanging suspended between the uprights for what seemed like eternity before dropping between them.

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