Page 28 of We're All Liars
“To piss you off, to get the best of your temper, and you played right into his hand.” Coach is right. But he’s not about to lecture me on self-control.
I step forward, causing Coach to slightly stumble as he steps back. “Because you’re so fucking great at controlling your temper, right? Tell me your secret,Coach King, please.” The shock, disbelief and anger on his face is enough for me to stand down. “That’s what I thought. So get the fuck out of my face.”
I’m so fucking done with shit. I slam my helmet on the ground, frustration and anger humming through my veins. I try to calm it. But I can’t. And I don’t think it’s only the asshat on the opposing team who’s getting the best of me. There’s so much rage in me; I want to hurt someone, and that jackass Sanders will be perfect to release some of my wrath on.
But I’m walking a fine line. We must win this game. Ihaveto win it. All this can’t be for nothing. So, I try to control myself, put my head down, and extend the lead a little more. After a few plays, we’re consistently moving the ball down the field. The clock winds down, bringing us to the fourth quarter. The Eagles added a field goal on their last drive, so we’re now only up by four. Sanders must be desperate, because he takes another shot—the same as last time, one low, one high—only this time I’m able to protect myself enough to not take the hit too bad as I tuck the ball to my chest and get tackled to the ground.
Fuck this. I call a huddle to relay a quick formation change to Topher and Smith. Both are confused a little at first but quickly get the purpose. Swiftly, we line up, the ball is snapped, and my fingers grip it tightly as I look down the field.
I have no intention of throwing it as Sanders comes towards me. I was supposed to pass it off to Smith, but I can’t. I don’t have enough time. Sanders is almost to me. Topher goes low, falling right in front of Sander’s legs, I secure the ball tighter against my stomach, put my head down and drive straight forward into Sander’s rib cage. Yeah, he has padding on, but it only helps so much. The momentum of my hit thrusts him back as he lets out a grunt before hitting the ground, then I land on top of him.
I’m slow to get up even when I hear the whistle blowing, knowing I just cost us yards, both from losing the field placement and from a penalty that is sure to be called. But it’s worth it. The satisfaction that brought me is undeniable. I tell Sanders, “This is my fucking house. Try your dirty shit again, motherfucker.”
He’s grunting, cursing, and acting tough, but he’s also in obvious pain. I’m hauled up by my shoulder pads, surrounded by a group of my teammates. Coach calls our final time-out. He spends the first sixty seconds of it staring at me like I’m a fucking moron. And I wouldn’t disagree. But fuck, I had to do something. That pansy ass had to be shown his cheap shots won’t be tolerated here.
“Do you want to lose? Do you want to blow everything over some trivial vendetta?” Coach asks me, his voice way too flat and calm.
“I won’t lose.” I can’t lose. And the fucker breathing down my neck right now is the main reason why. This coach telling me the right thing to do… who has never done right by anyone. What I wouldn’t give to tackle him, beat his head into the ground, for the pain he’s caused his own daughter. “That motherfucker needed a lesson. You don’t get to hurt people without consequences.”
Realization. I see it in his eyes. I’m talking about him too. Or he’s at least questioning the meaning behind my words before he goes into another pep talk with my teammates again. But he seems like he’s over this shit too. He will soon enough have his own penalties served to him.
The time-out concludes and offense take the field again with a fifteen-yard penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct, but it only takes two plays to get the yardage back, plus more as we capture another first down. The clock has a little over a minute on it when Archbishop Mathis gets the ball back after a successful field goal attempt by Johnson. And sure enough, our defensive line holds the Eagles back. They did manage to get a first down, but after two more plays, they’re nowhere near field goal range, so they go for it on the fourth. And defense fucks up their plans, giving the Wildcats enough time to run one play before it’s time for the second snap. With only eighteen seconds left on the clock, I kneel. the play stops but the seconds keep ticking away off the game clock. The entire stretch is perfect as I smile and watch Sanders.
Time runs out.
Wildcats win.
Holy fuck. We’re in the championship. How did that happen? Even at the beginning, before the season ever began, when Coach and Dustin started with this pipe dream, I never thought the day would come where I would actually be able to get here.
Everyone is one the field, celebrating the win, and I spot the one I want to celebrate with. The sight of her reminds me we won’t have a win next time. The Wildcats will lose, and she’ll make her dad suffer even more in the moments that follow. I get it. She wants him to get there, close enough to taste exactly what he wants. And she knows he’ll lose his temper and play right into her hand.
Why am I disappointed? How am I just realizing that I actually want to win next week? I mean, it’s a live, televised game on a national stage. The chance of a lifetime. And I’m already walking into it knowing it ends badly. But she’s worth it.
There’s no mistaking the joy on her face, especially when she rushes up to me, her arms going around my neck as I lift her off her feet and kiss her. This would be the perfect finish to the game if there wasn’t so much baggage behind this congratulatory smooch. I still make the best of it and give her one more long, deep kiss before I place her back on her feet.
Her hand slaps my shoulder pad. “I can’t believe you and Toph did that. That could have ruined everything.” Her voice lowers not that anyone is paying attention to us or can hear with all the rejoicing going on. “But that bastard deserved worse.”
He really did. But I’m satisfied with the hit I got in and taking the win. And I should be partying with my team around me, instead I stand with her.
“This is not what we agreed on.” I rub my finger along the SJA painted on her cheek in glitter.
Her lips curl into a mischievous smirk. “I’m wearing your number. You just have to find where.”
“Fuck,” I groan, my hands reaching under her skirt and grip her ass to pick her up. Her legs wrap around my hips. “Why the fuck did you have to tell me that right now?”
“Anticipation,” she hums into my ear, her teeth nipping at my earlobe and not helping to calm my need to search her body for my number.
“Crawford.” Goddamn it. I set Morgan down and look over to Coach. He doesn’t acknowledge her and only addresses me. “Good job. But don’t lose focus now. One way or another, you’ll be free after next week.”
Yeah. The motherfucker won’t be able to hold anything (like murder) over my head, he won’t have his title, and he will be exposed on national TV. Morgan wants it to be on the biggest stage possible. So that’s what I’ve provided for her. I just hope it’s enough for her to let go of this and move on. Because I know better than anyone how lethal her hatred can run.
Coach has already walked off but has left a slight damper on the mood. So, I focus back on her, take her hand in mine, and lead her off the field. “I have some searching to do.”
27
MORGAN
His fingers trail up the front of my thigh. “It must’ve washed off in the shower.”