Hail Mary

Liam

Feeling the laces beneath my fingers is like finally being able to breathe again; coming up for air after spending so long nearly drowning. Yeah, maybe it's a little dramatic. But between academics, family, and relationships, I feel like the rest of my life is just some massive cinderblock tied to my ankle, not giving a single fuck as I sink to the bottom. But football carries me up to the surface. It always has. No matter what's been going on in my life, as soon as I pick up that ball, I'm me again. Not Liam Payne, the senior who probably isn't going to graduate. But Payne, the cool, confident quarterback who knows how to get a ball down the field time and time again. Out here, I'm in my element. I know there are a couple reporters in the stands, and maybe a recruiter or two from the NFL, but it doesn't faze me. If they're here for me, great. My dad would probably tell me I need to hustle my ass off just in case. But if I think about that, I'm going to choke for sure. So instead, I assume they're here for somebody else. As I jog up to the huddle, joining guys I never really feel bonded with until we're all in uniform, I focus on what I need to do. A quarterback's success is determined by how he reacts under pressure, and even if it's taken me a long time to get to where I am today, I'm determined to be the guy this team needs. After all, this is my last chance. Even if I don't graduate, I won't be eligible to play next year. I've done my five seasons. Gotten as much out of my college career as I possibly can. Now it's on me to bring it home and get the Tigers their first ever Division-I bowl game win. And it's gonna happen one step at a time. Coach Garvey runs down a short list of plays he wants to make sure we work in. Most of the starters already know them by heart, so this is probably for the walk-ons and rookies. I'd say 3/ 4 of the scrimmage team is made up of guys who already know the drill. It's a good mix, and it'll give Coach a chance to see what the new guys can do. As far as I'm concerned, it's a chance to find that one guy I can count on. The receiver or running back—or hell, even the tight end—who's going to help me do what needs to be done. Somebody who's focused and committed and willing to take this seriously. I love my teammates. They're like the brothers I never had, as stupid as it sounds. But most of them aren't here with hopes of continuing on to the NFL, and I need somebody who's willing to take it all the way. The coaches head back to the sidelines to watch, with Assistant Coach Hanes supervising the guys still running drills. I call the first play, taking a pretty standard formation out of our playbook, then jog up to the line of scrimmage. Getting my hands on the ball again gets my blood pumping. Practice may not be a real game, but it makes my brain light up like a fucking fireworks show. As soon as my fingers touch those laces, I'm in the zone. I drop back, trusting the line to hold, and scan for the receiver who's supposed to be cutting across the field. I see Matthews making the route, but he's slower than he should be. I give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping he'll put on a burst of speed. I let the ball fly while I still have a straight shot without any interference. But just as I guessed, Matthews isn't in position for the catch. The ball bounces off the tips of his gloves, and then off the tips of a cornerback's gloves, before it hits the ground. It bugs the shit out of me when guys aren't doing what they're supposed to do, especially when I know they're more than capable. But Coach has already gotten on my case before about trying to do his job for him, and I keep my mouth shut, just giving Matthews a "what the fuck, man" look when he takes his place at the line. Second and ten is hardly the worst odds I've ever faced, though. Calling out the play, I look to my left and see one of our new receivers. I usually keep tabs on the guys who come in for offense, and this year is no different. Niall Horan, walk-on junior. I don't know much about him beyond that. But when I see him standing loose and ready to run, I give him the nod. His helmet tilts down as he nods back, and I take the snap. The center is off-balance, leaning too much on his left side. He sprained his right ankle over the summer, and now he's favoring it. But that means the snap is a little off-balance. It takes me a minute to adjust, and by the time I do all hell breaks loose. The defense is taking advantage of my line's weakness. One of the leaner guys, Jeffries, breaks away from the tackle, pivots, and starts toward me. I don't have time to set up the way I want. I just have to find an open guy, fling the ball, and hope for the best. I hate doing it this way, but it's an unavoidable part of football. By the time I get rid of the ball, I've only got one foot planted. There's no hope for a tight spiral, and I watch as it sails languidly toward Horan. There's no way I can be pissed at him if he doesn't make the play. It's a hard catch for even the experienced guys to make. But I can see in his posture that he's making the calculations in his head. Deciding how much he's going to have to compensate to catch that ball. He cuts past a defender, and manages an underhanded catch to grab hold of the ball before it hits the ground. Tucking it close to his body, he runs for the sidelines, and we get a surprisingly easy first down. I jog up to meet the new position, and clap Horan on the arm. "Good catch." He doesn't say anything for a moment, but I can see him smile behind his facemask. He's got a pretty nice smile for a football player. Then again, we're never as bad off as the hockey guys. "Thanks." "You ready for another?" He nods, taking the position. His fingers skim the grass, and I call the next play. He's off like a shot, beating the defender who seems to half-ass it. It's Matthews they cover, thinking I'll probably favor him. I take advantage of their mistake, and deliberately overthrow to Horan. Either he knew what I meant by "another", or he's just that good at reading where the ball will end up. He compensates for it easily, putting on a burst of speed and plucking the ball from the air. By the time anybody catches up to him, we've gained another 30 yards. Horan and I keep it up, and it's not long before we score a touchdown. He seems to be able to catch every shitty thing I throw at him, and it's almost like he can read exactly what I'm going to do before I do it. I have this weird feeling—almost a sort of giddiness—that this is the guy who's going to make it happen for me. This is the guy I can count on. I can't help but notice the fact that he always seems eager to step the ball out of bounds, though. Maybe he was just taught to do it that way. A lot of high school coaches prefer stopping the clock every chance they get, and avoiding injury whenever possible for their star players. Still, some gut feeling tells me to keep an eye on it. The second team's offense takes the field, and we hit the sidelines. I watch special teams set up, but I can see Matthews out of the corner of my eye. He's heading straight for me, and he's stomping around like an enraged bull. The helmet comes off, the mouthguard is spit out, and he gets right up in my face. I can feel my body tense, and I take a step back to put some distance between us. "What the fuck was that?" 
"You have to be a little more specific," I say dryly, feeling a little bit of satisfaction when his face turns even redder. Matthews is a pretty good athlete, but he's always been kind of a tool. And while I can't prove it, I'm pretty sure he's been getting into some serious PED use. "Don't fucking play with me, Payne. I was wide open, and you throw it to this cocksucker?"
"You were covered by two guys on almost every play, Matthews." I can see Horan nearby, and the corner of my mouth turns up in what I hope is an apologetic expression. "And I still could've caught the ball."
"Sure didn't look that way," I say, knowing I'm tempting fate. "What the fuck did you say to me?" "Knock it off, Matthews," I hear Garvey bark a little further down the sidelines. Nobody's surprised by Matthews' willingness to pick a fight. He's always been like this, and it's only gotten worse in the last year or two. If he wasn't a damn good receiver, I think Coach would've probably canned him after his first season. "Fine. You wanna piss our season away, go right ahead." Fucking dramatic, too. He storms off, grabs a water bottle, and chugs it like he's downing a bottle of Jack. "Nice to have an arch-enemy on the first day of practice," Horan says as Matthews passes him, giving him what I can only assume is a death glare. A grin comes easy to me for the first time today. Once football season nears, I'm usually all business. It's nice to loosen up a little. Horan walks up to me and finally takes his helmet off. His brown hair is matted down by sweat, and he has the typical, slightly flushed look of an athlete who's just worked his ass off. "Thanks for that," he says. I shrug. "No thanks needed. You made yourself open, so I gave you the ball." Something glints in his sea blue eyes, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. "I passed the test then?" I grin back at him. "Yeah, you did." The second team can't make it down the field. They have to give it up after an unsuccessful attempt to convert a fourth down, and we take the field again. For the rest of practice, I'm determined to improve my own performance. My thoughts turn inward, and I block out everything but my form as I handle the ball, and the guys I need to get it to to put more points on the board. It's just a practice, but every game, every scrimmage is a chance for improvement. I have to look at it that way, or I'm never going to get us to a bowl game. And I'm definitely never going to get picked up by the NFL. I spread the love around during this drive; letting my backs run the ball and handing off to Matthews and Harding as well as Horan. We don't get the score, but it's not long before we take the field again. I know Coach is probably going to call time on us after this drive, and I want to put in the best show possible. The defense has really tightened up, falling back into the groove of reading our patterns. Third and eight, I drop back and look for a receiver. The defense has been all over my ass this time, and covering my runner step for step. They know I have to throw it, and they've got guys covering Matthews and Horan. Matthews is probably the safe bet. He has more experience dealing with a tight defense, and after what happened earlier, he'll probably work extra hard just to make sure he doesn't look bad. But I want to see if I can get it to Horan. He's being chased down by two guys, with a blocker only able to take care of one of them. He tries to cut across and lose one, and I can see him look back to me, ready for the pass. I snap off a straight shot, following through even as a linebacker comes within feet of tackling me. My focus isn't on him, but on Horan. The defender manages to shake his blocker, and there are two guys heading straight for Horan now. It's a shitty situation for any receiver, and I curse myself for not going with Matthews. I expect the ball to be batted away, but it's worse than that. Horan just chokes completely. He cuts the route short, ducking the defenders, and one picks it off like I'd intentionally thrown it to him. He makes it a good twenty yards before he's brought down, and I can't help but wonder if this is a sign of my dreams going up in smoke already.