Page 75 of Chasing the Rush
On the field, Moriarty stuffs the Raptors’ running back, and everyone in the stands roars their approval. The fans’ volume and intensity tonight doesn’t compare to what they’ll bring next week when they’re cheering for their team in a game that actually counts for something. But still, they’re obviously pumped for the season to start soon and for their team’s only hero to be wearing black and blue once again.
It’s third down for the Raptors now, thanks to that beastlytackle by Moriarty. The bad guys need to advance eight yards, or else they’ll have to give up possession of the ball to the good guys yet again. Everyone on the field lines up, and I’m instantly tipped off by a certain kind of energy and posturing in Moriarty’s stance: He’s read something in the QB’s eyes, I’m betting, and he’s poised and ready to use the intel to his maximum advantage.
I lean forward and find Chelsea standing among the coaches, hoping to exchange a look with her. But she’s staring intently at the action on the field, not at the guy on the bubble standing thirty yards down the sideline.
I return to the game just in time to watch the ball being snapped. The Raptors’ quarterback steps back into the pocket to set up for a pass. And that’s when, in a blaze of glory, Moriarty rips past a Raptors offensive lineman and crashes the QB to the ground with a thud before the guy can get rid of the ball. It’s a monstrous sack by Moriarty, a bone-crusher that results in a huge loss of yards for our opponents. And, of course, everyone in the stadium who’s rooting for the Mastodons explodes in response.
After getting back slaps and high fives from his teammates, Moriarty jogs off the field as every player involved in the Raptors’ upcoming punt comes on.
As one does after a monstrous triumph like that, Moriarty heads first to his head coach on the sideline for a quick attaboy and helmet pat. But from there, he heads not to his DC or position coach. Not to the pack of players vying to congratulate him. But to Chelsea. And even worse, he heads to her with a beaming smile on his lips.
When Moriarty reaches my girl, he picks her up and swings her around ebulliently in celebration, the same way her brother Nate did before the game earlier. Except that there’s something heated and sexual in the way Jacob’s holding her, if you ask me. Something way too familiar and suggestive.
Murder.
That’s what my body feels urgently called to commit in this moment—a brutal, merciless, gruesome homicide that’s preceded by maximum pain. But I force myself to stand motionless with my thoughts, stoically pretending murderous rage isn’t throttling me.Use this as fuel when they finally send you in,Luca, I tell myself, even though I’m now totally stressed they’ll never send me in.
One of our rookie QBs still in the hunt goes in with his offensive teammates, but on his first pass of the drive, the ball is tipped and a Raptor—Jeremy Calhoun!—grabs the lame-duck ball to secure a chance for the bad guys to try to score once again. It’s a bad thing for our team as a whole. But a great thing for Jeremy and his chances of securing a spot on his team’s active roster next week.
“Ninety-Five!” our defensive coordinator shouts as our offensive unit comes off the field. “You’re up, Maguire.”
Thank God. Apparently, that interception by my former college teammate was a great thing for me, too. Except I can’t focus on that right now because all I’m thinking about is the way Moriarty swung Chelsea around like he’s got some kind of ownership over her body.
Breathing hard, I glance toward Chelsea down the sideline so I can lock eyes with her to let her know I’m not happy about the way Moriarty touched her. Or maybe I’m just looking for some much-needed encouragement or coaching. A hand signal, perhaps, if I’m lucky. But nope. Chelsea’s talking to Moriarty about something on her iPad and not paying me any mind.
Trembling with barely contained rage, I strap my helmet on and jog with purpose onto the field with my unit, determined to put the jealousy coursing through me to good use. But as I line up, I feel off. My hands are twitching and my mouth feels dry. My helmet feels weirdly snug.
Come on, Luca. Get your head in the game. Focus.
The ball is snapped by the Raptors’ center, and I get a pretty decent jump off the line. Charging hard, I punch the tackle’s outside shoulder and keep coming in hot. And when I see their quarterback reverse out, I turn my shoulder and chase … only to realize, as the bad guys’ tight end slips past me, I’ve been faked out. Juked like a goddamned rookie. The result? A humiliating, twenty-yard gain down the middle for the opposing team, thanks to me.Fuck, fuck, fuck!
It’s the worst mistake of my entire preseason. Actually, I didn’t even do something that stupid in any scrimmage, either. And worst of all, I did it at the worst possible time, when everything’s on the line for not only me but Chelsea, too.
The hometown crowd boos me mercilessly as I line up for the next snap. It’s a pass play, but I don’t get anywhere near their quarterback, since I get hung up by a block and their QB gets the ball off in jiffy. One more snap, and I’m chasing after their running back again. But ultimately, he breaks my tackle, and then two more in the secondary before he hurtles himself into the end zone.
Touch down, Raptors. Mostly thanks to me.
I jog back to the sideline with my helmet unstrapped and my soul on fire, wishing I could turn invisible. Coach Martinez yells something encouraging to me, but I can’t make it out above the loud cacophony of boos from the stands.
“Shake it off,” Coach Martinez says, so I march behind the players and personnel lined up on the sideline to an open space behind them and in front of the fans—a spot where I can pace back and forth while trying to calm myself down.
“De-feeeeec-tive!” a fan in the front row yells at me, a guy in a Raptors jersey, which inspires his buddies sitting next to him down the line to immediately join in and make it a chant.
Assholes.I’d like to see them get out here and try to do better. One snap and they’d all get killed. Literally. I flip mytrolls the bird with both hands, even though I know it’s a terrible idea, and might even catch me a league fine. And, unfortunately, the stunt only goads my trolls on to curse me out and chant even more loudly.
“Bye-bye, Defective Maguire!” one of them shouts, so I turn on my cleat and quickly march away.
Defective Maguire.
That’s what people have called me for years now. Ever since I went in the sixth round of the draft while Levi went in the first, the same way Roman and Marco had before him. Ever since I didn’t live up to my potential at my first team and immediately got traded in favor of a veteran at my position who’d just gotten released from another team. I’ve stoically dealt my whole professional career with fans, sportswriters, and talking heads comparing me unfavorably to Roman—and now, Levi, too—for years, so why am I letting those nobodies in the front row get to me now?
“Hey, Ninety-Five.” It’s Moriarty, appearing out of nowhere to block my forward progress. We haven’t been friendly, obviously, but I’m thinking he’s here as the leader of the team to uncharacteristically encourage me to keep my head up. That’s the only reason I stop when he appears before me—because, stupidly, I’m thinking he’s going to say something helpful to me. But, man, am I wrong. With a wicked smile on his sweaty face, Jacob Moriarty looks me straight in the eyes and says, “You’re all everyone talked to me about while I was holding out. Maguire, Maguire, Maguire. ‘He’s breathing down your neck, Jacob. Just like in college.’” He grins in menacing fashion. “And now, the guy who was supposedly gunning for my spot just showed me and the whole world why everyone calls him the Defective Maguire.”
Every cell in my body wants to clock him, but since that’s exactly what he wants me to do, I fist my hands and gnash myteeth and somehow manage to cling to the last shredded fibers of my self-control. “Step aside, Moriarty.”
On the contrary, he takes a step forward, causing his chest pads to bump mine. “When you’re tossing and turning tonight in an empty bed about that embarrassing rookie mistake you just made, I want you to imagine me fucking Chelsea till she can’t walk tomorrow, because that’s exactly what I’m going to be doing tonight to celebrate my sack and your fuckup.”
My brain glitches and my vision blurs. As rageful stars fill my eyes, I launch forward and shove Moriarty’s chest with all my might, with the fury and force of a hurricane, and Moriarty stumbles backward a few steps in response. When he quickly recovers his balance, however, it’s clear he’s now in beast mode. With a roar, he launches himself at me with fury in his dark eyes, and I meet and exceed his energy by grabbing his face mask to keep his head in place and then punishing him with no-holds-barred punches to the side of his helmet.
