Page 81 of Sacked
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The ceiling of my hotel room in the Lexington Embassy Suites wasn’t much different than the ceiling in any other hotel room anywhere in the country. Seeing as I was again alone on the night before the game, Vee didn’t bring up changing the Coopers’ night-before-a-home-game practice. Punching my pillow, I tried to get comfortable. The cold mattress to my side wasn’t the only cause of my inability to sleep. Tomorrow, the Coopers were playing the Jaguars for the second time this season. A month ago, we played them in Jacksonville.
During the first meeting, Coach Garcia and Pratt planned to put me into the game when our lead was strong. I went in, but not because we were strong. The Jags with their 7–5 record were no match for the Coopers. Every player on our team knew we were superior in every way. I guess you could have said we were cocky. At the end of the first half, we were impossibly down 7–17. The Jags capitalized on recent injuries to our defense. There were small holes, and with the precision of a surgeon, they found them.
Coach Tilson’s half-time speech consisted of more yelling than talking. Our defense needed to work as a unit. Our offense was better than one score. A roughing-the-passer call came against the Jags late in the third quarter in a play that knocked the wind out of Troy Dennison. Coach sent me in. The score was 21–20. Troy had gotten us into the lead.
The penalty put us at first down on the Jags’ forty-two-yard line. With another quarter still left to play, I called for an RPO—run pass option. Spencer snapped the ball. I stepped back, reading my progressions. JD was open downfield. My timing felt right.
The Jags’ cornerback cut right, caught my pass, and ran it into the Coopers’ end zone.
In one fucking play, I’d caused the Coopers to be down by five points. The Jags went for two points and failed. The next time the offense took the field, Pratt put Dennison back in. We went four and out. In the fourth quarter, our special teams made a tremendous kick return, and Malik Johnson ran eighty-eight yards for a touchdown.
Score was 28–26.
The Jags again took the field. They whittled down the clock and in the final seconds scored a field goal. We left Florida with our first loss.
To say I took it well would be a completely erroneous statement.
The rules of professional football were to concentrate on the next opponent. My mind wouldn’t let me forget the interception that cost us the game. It wasn’t until we were supposed to be concentrating on the Houston Texans that Pratt sat me down and told me to get out of my own head. The Coopers made many mistakes the Sunday we played the Jags in Jacksonville. He said it was egotistical of me to think my mistake was the one that cost us the game.
I knew he was right.
Which only pissed me off more.
It wouldn’t matter how many perfect plays I made in practice. I wanted to be on the field during a game. I was determined not to let my last pass of the season be an interception.
The next week, the Coopers beat the Texans in Crystal Light.
The following week, the Coopers beat the 49ers, and last week we beat the Colts, both in their respective stadiums.
We were a month out from our one loss and about to face the Jaguars again. Our record was 14–1. The Jaguars’ record was 10–5, currently ranking them third in our division. We held on to our first-place ranking by a thread. The Texans were in second place with a 14–2 record.
Tomorrow was our last home game before the playoffs, and the following week we will face the Texans for the second time in Houston. The fucking season was coming down to two divisional games. The Texans have a bye this week. If we win today’s game, we’ll go to 15–1. If we lose, we’ll have the same record as the Texans.
Either way, divisional championship will come down to next week’s game.
If we win today and lose next week, our two teams will have a tied record. I’d done the math in my head over and over. The NFL had a specific, multistep tiebreaking system to determine the divisional winner involving head-to-head record, division record, and common game record. One more loss would send us to the wild-card round.
One of the reasons I wasn’t currently sleeping was because in the past four weeks, I hadn’t been given the opportunity to redeem myself. Dennison has taken every snap, secured every first down, and thrown every touchdown pass. The kid was a star in the making—I wasn’t arguing that. I simply wanted a chance for redemption.
Another heavy thought weighing on my mind was that before tomorrow’s game will be another moment of silence and the commemoration of life for Reid Hubbard at Crystal Light. A banner with his name will hang from the rafters and fly next to the one bearing his father’s name. I knew how much time Vee put into tomorrow’s less-than-five-minute presentation. And because of a stupid NFL rule, she was home in her condo thinking about what would happen—alone.
There had been few changes or updates in the last month with her father’s murder case. Vee said her attorney told her that these cases like his weren’t solved like they were on television. It took time to gather witnesses and evidence. The same could be said about Reid’s estate. In the almost three months since his death, his assets and debts were still being assessed, and the attorneys had filed multiple motions.
A check of the clock on the bedside stand told me it was after three in the morning. As badly as I wanted to talk to Vee, I knew she should be asleep. I should be asleep. Getting out of bed, I downed a bottle of water, checked my alarm on my phone, and put a pillow over the damn clock.
Sleep must have come sometime during the early hours of the morning as I woke to my alarm. Seconds after silencing the noise, my phone rang. Vee’s name was on the screen.
“I wish I was next to you,” I said in way of answering.
“I wish you were too.”
Damn it was good to hear her voice.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
Sitting up, I moved my feet to the floor and ran my free hand over my scratchy face. “My alarm just went off. How are you doing with today’s tribute for your dad?”
