Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (42 page)

Chapter 23 – Four Minutes (Lee)

I’m jumping up and down and then pacing back and forth, tail wagging up a storm. I can’t stop staring at the screen. Hal, next to me, is hardly any better, and in general the whole room is buzzing. They’re Yerba fans first, of course, but they hate Crystal City, and besides, everyone loves an underdog story. So the noise level is high, and even the guy watching the prop bets has forgotten to update them in the last five minutes. Nobody’s reminding him. The game just got exciting.

I know it’s a team effort, I know it’s a well-designed play and good coverage and pressure from the strong side and all of that, I know it the same way I know that the airline pilot isn’t solely responsible for getting me home safely, but my heart is thudding against my ribs and all that keeps running through my mind is:
he
did it, he
did
it. I want them to show that sack a hundred more times. I want to videotape it and leave it running in an endless loop on our TV at home. I’m so proud of him I think I’m going to explode, or collapse, or scream.

But I keep it together, and even Hal, I think, doesn’t quite get why I’m so excited. He knows that I’m proud of my boyfriend making a big play. Heck, more than one of the Whalers staff came over to pat me on the back. And I didn’t even mind it, didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. But none of them know how hard we’ve worked for years, how that play is something I knew he could do, and how I convinced him to believe in himself, too. The rational part of my brain kicks in with
hey, you know, he might not even be your boyfriend anymore
, and I tell it to shut the fuck up, for the next half hour he’s my boyfriend, and after the game, when reality reasserts itself, then we’ll see where we stand.

It doesn’t even matter what our relationship is. I can still be proud of him. I can still bounce on my feet when the announcers say, “Miski made that play happen,” or, “That was no easy sack—McCrae is elusive—but Miski would not be denied.” And Dev would be happy: after the player introductions, they have not once mentioned that he’s gay. He’s right: while the game is going on, it’s irrelevant.

“Three and out,” I mutter. “Three and out.”

“They can do it,” Hal says.

Jalili comes over to stand near us. “You boys must be over the moon,” she says.

“In four minutes, we will be.” I point to the clock as the Firebirds line up on defense.

Chapter 24 – Two Minutes (Dev)

The scoreboard reads: Firebirds 23 – Sabretooths 21. The clock reads 4:08. The crowd is chanting, “Here we go, Sabretooths, here we go.” The PA system plays some kind of stupid big cat roar, and a clip from some old movie where a pudgy sheep is yelling, “It ain’t over! It ain’t over!”

I hear it with my ears. Inside my head it’s calm and quiet and Gerrard’s instructions and Steez’s coaching and Lee’s words are clear as bells.
We
can do this.
Head in the game.
I believe in you.

My tail lashes, but the rest of me stays stock-still, alert and ready. Crystal City can’t just kill the clock now. They need to gain about forty yards to have a prayer, fifty to have a real shot. And we’re in a balancing act with them, because what they would like to do is get into field goal range with five seconds left. If we can force them to go out on downs, then we can try to kill the clock. If we let them get into field goal range, then we want to slow down the clock so we have time to answer if they score.

I’m not the one who has to figure out all that strategy. I’m the one who has to stop the plays.

Specifically, I have to stop the jackrabbit, who basically ignores me as we line up. “Hey,” I say. “Wanna step aside and let me get to your quarterback again?”

His ears twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. I hope I’m making him think. If he’s good, he’ll shut everything else out, but he’s a rabbit. I’m hoping he’s nervous.

They run it up the middle with the deer, and Pike and Gerrard help collapse the hole, limiting him to three yards. Carson and I slap paws as we go back to the line. “Watch the short pass,” Gerrard says, coming up behind us. “They’re not desperate for clock yet, but they will be soon.”

And when I line up across from the rabbit, his back leg stamps. “This play,” I say. “I’m going to get sack number two.”

He doesn’t react. But I watch his eyes and I see where they flick to, and when the ball’s snapped, I jump in the same direction.

He and I collide. He spins away from me, but by the time he turns to look for the ball, he’s well off his route and the pass sails behind me. I make a stab at it, but I’m off-balance and I miss by a foot.

Third down. Clock’s stopped at 3:44. We come back to the huddle. “Short pass,” Gerrard says, “but watch the draw play.”

There’s no draw. McCrae passes to his number one wideout, the fox, and Vonni tackles him right away. Fourth down, two to go.

Crystal City calls a timeout, as much to stop the clock as to discuss what to do. “Think they’re going for it?” I ask Gerrard as we congregate on the sidelines.

He looks at the Sabretooths’ sideline. “I’d be surprised. They probably think they can hold us and get the ball back. Also, they have to know they might not make it, and then we could just hold the ball and kick a field goal from here. Too risky.”

They come back out with the punting team, so we stay back while our special teams go out. So many things can go wrong: we could muff the return, fumble on the runback…I guess there’s really not that many things, but they all seem huge to me.

The other guys feel similarly, I think, because we’re quiet until our returner has the ball safely in his arms and is down. Then we cheer, and we call after the offense as they run out: “Two first downs! Just get two first downs!”

Ty looks back and waves a paw to let us know he’s heard us. His tail wags as he gets into position.

The chants of “DEE-FENSE! DEE-FENSE!” from the crowd are deafening. But our offense knows what plays to run, and they don’t need to communicate much. Aston checks the defense, gets the ball from the snap, and hands it off to Jaws. The Sabretooths are expecting the run, and they collapse around the middle. Hard as Jaws works, he can’t get through any gaps. Polecki and Yates back up that ferocious defensive line, and the Sabretooths call time out when the play’s over, stopping the clock.

Second down, Aston floats a short pass over the middle, and Ty makes an incredible catch. But Yates grabs him around the waist and spins him back and down to the ground, two yards short of the first down. The Sabretooths take their second time out.

We hold our breath. I watch Aston talk to Strike in the huddle. “They’re going to him,” I say.

“Who?” Zillo asks.

I point out onto the field. “Strike.”

He follows my finger. Charm, behind us, says, “Good. We could use another touchdown.”

The teams come up to the line, and it doesn’t quite work out that way. Strike does shed a tackler and get the first down, but the safeties are playing behind him and were alert to the short gain, so they come up and pin him in on both sides. He tries to dart between them, and almost makes it, almost. One of them grabs at his ankle and slows him just long enough for the other one to pile into his body and knock him down.

“That’s one!” We jump and fist-bump and get more jittery as the referees move the chains and reset the down marker to 1. The Sabretooths take their last timeout, stopping the clock at 3:01. The play clock is 35 seconds, so we’ll be able to run two plays and then the two-minute warning will stop the clock. After that, we’ll need to get a first down or else they’ll get the ball back.

Coming out of the time out, it’s a running play again. Jaws lowers his head and charges up the middle for two as seconds tick off the clock. Second down, he delays and tries to run around the end. He gets three, four, and then is forced to the ground by one of the coyotes—it’s Polecki, I see as he gets up and hurries back to the line.

Because Jaws stayed in bounds, despite Polecki’s attempt to get him across the sideline, the clock ticks down from 2:20. Aston doesn’t bother assembling the huddle, just walks to the sideline to talk to the coaches as the refs wait twenty seconds and then signal the two-minute warning.

It seems to take forever. I want it to be finished, I just want our guys to go out there and get four more yards and then the game will be over. Everyone’s edgy, everyone feels the same way. Tails lash and curl, ears sweep forward and back, guys hop from one foot to the other and joke. A little way down from me, I hear Pike say, “What are you gonna do with your bonus?” and someone tells him to shut up so he doesn’t jinx it.

The crowd noise is what I might call a “hushed roar.” They can’t wait for their team (mostly; the Chevali rooting section is loud as a jet engine) to get back on the field, and they’re saving their energy to scream when the plays are on the field, to disrupt the offense, but they’re so excited they can’t help making noise. It escapes like the air from a shaken soda bottle, seeping out in cheers and calls, and the cheers are contagious: “KNOCK ’EM DOWN” starts in one section of the field and spreads all around, followed by the recurring “DEE-FENSE! DEE-FENSE!” Behind us, on the sideline, I think I hear a couple yells of “faggot” and “cocksucker,” but to be honest, I might be imagining them, the voices are so insubstantial through the din.

Third down looms. Aston marshalls our offense, and we’re on the sidelines full of nervous energy, wanting to be out there so badly and yet unable to do anything. Up and down the line, we point out things on the defense, or bet what play they’re going to run, because really, only Aston and the offense know.

“Bootleg.”

“We never bootleg.”

“Exactly. They won’t be expecting it.”

“Gotta stick with what we know.”

“Look at the way they’re lined up. They’re expecting short pass.”

“Aston’s going to keep it. He can get four yards if Jaws blocks for him.”

“Hard count. Try to get an offsides.”

“Oh God, if they jump…”

“We gotta make this.”

“We will.”

“We gotta make this.”

“We gotta.”

We clench our fists and curl our tails around our legs, strain forward and stare. If sheer force of will could affect a game, we would carry Aston over the line of scrimmage to the first down. But all we can do is sit and watch as the lines set. Aston walks up under center, shouts at the linemen—I doubt anyone can hear him over the crowd noise—and then hurries back three steps to the shotgun position. He barks out the snap count, and we watch the Sabretooths’ line intently now, ready to yell if any one of them flinches. Jumping offsides, as long as our guys don’t flinch first, would be a five yard penalty, and from here, that would be a first down and the ballgame.

But the lines stay immobile and the play clock winds down: 4, 3, and Aston stamps his foot and the ball flies back into his paws like it has a thousand times before. He drops back and we’re trying to follow the action: there’s Ty across the middle, there’s Strike racing down the seam, there’s Rodo stopping and coming back on a curl route.

The sidelines are alive with screams. “Get rid of it! Throw it! Throw it!”

And there’s Yates and Polecki staying with Ty and Rodo, the cornerback and safety blanketing Strike. Aston scrambles, avoids the first rusher, avoids the second, heaves the ball desperately toward Ty.

It’s not a good throw, not even close. But Ty sees it and stretches for it, and his fingertips graze it. The ball goes wobbling backwards.

Our screams change from “Yes! Yes!” to “No! No!” Yates and Rodo see the ball at the same time and leap, and Yates bats it backwards, out of the deer’s hands.

The ball seems to hang forever. Then it falls to the grass.

The crowd explodes. We deflate, but only momentarily. “Come on,” Gerrard says. “We’re still leading. Let’s go out there.”

Our Chevali cheering section screams approval, but we just seat our helmets on our heads. It occurs to me that with 1:43 left, this is probably the last time I’m going to put my helmet on for months.
Make it count
, I tell myself.

Our punter pins them back at the ten, but they aren’t fazed by the long field in front of them. McCrae runs their offense without a huddle, just coming to the line and setting up. Of course they’re going to pass, and of course they’re aiming for the sidelines. I stick to Crais, the jackrabbit, who looks about as hyped up as I feel, but McCrae doesn’t target him on the first series. He throws over the middle and completes to Bridger. The fox darts around Norton, but that slows him enough that Pace tackles him at the thirty, and the clock keeps running.

McCrae runs up and spikes the ball to stop the clock. One minute ten left to go. They come up to the line again, fast, and Gerrard makes sure we all know our assignments. As I line up across from Crais, his back foot twitches and his ears flick.

I backpedal when the ball is snapped, giving him some room and waiting for the ball, thinking I can make an interception if I time it right. He runs a short route and I shadow him, close enough that McCrae changes his target and throws to the tight end on the other side, but Carson knocks it down.

They line up again, fast, and McCrae throws to Bridger immediately. Vonni drops his fellow fox at the line of scrimmage, no gain.

Fifty seconds. “Hold them short!” Gerrard yells. “Guard the lines!”

And ten seconds later, Bridger runs down the center of the field, drawing the coverage as the tight end sneaks under it. The tiger turns, grabs the throw from McCrae. I chase him, with Gerrard, but he makes it across midfield before we tackle him.

At least we get him inbounds. The clock tick-tick-ticks as they run up to the line to spike it again. They’re at our 46, a possibly makeable field goal, but we know they’re going to want to get a few more yards.

On the next play, Runningwater fakes a block, turns and catches a short pass, and scrambles for seven yards, getting out of bounds to stop the clock. They are definitely in field goal range now. Long, but makeable.

The whistle blows. I look around, startled, and then hear, “Timeout, Chevali.”

“Come on!” Gerrard yells.

We follow him back to the sideline, where the defensive coordinator and Coach huddle us up. “We need to knock them back,” Coach yells. “We’re going to send everyone. Just swarm them, try to get a sack. If you can get a fumble, great. But knock them back five yards, ten yards, and if he throws it, try to tip it and look for the interception.”

“We never blitz big,” Norton mutters, right behind me, but if Coach hears it, he ignores it.

“Play good defense,” he says. “Go out there and make us proud.”

“Coach.” Gerrard speaks up. We turn to him. His ears are up, but his muzzle is creased and I think I see the reflection of Norton’s comment in it. Shouldn’t we stick with what got us here?

Samuelson looks across the huddle at Gerrard. “If we don’t knock them back, chances are we lose the game on the next play. We need to gamble here.”

Wolf and coyote stare at each other and then Gerrard says, “Then we’ll knock them back.”