"Last time, seniors. This is your day. Enjoy it," Coach Bainridge says as the other members of the team form two lines that stretch all the way from the tunnel to the big Western logo in the middle of the field. "Just keep your heads right for the actual game."

Coach runs out of the tunnel with the other coaches, leaving just us twenty-five seniors. It's our last home game, and Coach dressed a couple of guys from the scout team who busted their asses the past four years, giving them their time in the sun. The crowd is nuts, with big cheers even as these guys go out, their helmets glittering in the fall sun.

“Sucks that your girl can't be sideline for this,” Tyler says as the defensive starting seniors are introduced. "You know, being part of the cordon and all."

"Nah, she's got seats at the fifty-yard line. I offered to her parents, but they said no, so I think she gave them to a couple of her classmates. I don't know. Either way, she's up there, so it’s all good.”

"From Monte Sereno, California. Tight end, number eighty-three, Duncan Hart!"

"Excuse me, time for my entrance."

The PA system is playing music, a remixed version of Queen's Princes of The Universe that somebody picked out because of my first name and my dark hair, but I can't hear anything over the physical roar of the crowd as I walk out, my arms crossed over my chest, walking out a few yards before throwing my arms out, letting the joy and roar of the crowd move me. It's different now than before, and talking with Carrie has helped me so much. I still love the crowd, I love the feeling, but I know there’s something even more important out there. When I get to the logo, I turn to the home side, where I pick out Carrie in her seat and point to her.

She sees me, and she points back, her words lost in the roar before it's Tyler's turn, and the rest of the offensive seniors. We get ready, and it's game time.

We take the opening kickoff and start from our twenty-seven.

I line up tight and drop into a three-point stance. We're playing against Washington Poly, a good team that's got a bowl berth already, but it isn't in the mix for the conference title anymore. If we win, we play Clement for the conference title next week. If we lose—well, we don't.

The WP defensive end is nearly bug-eyed as he gets into his stance, growling at me. "I'ma fuck you up today, pretty boy.”

The ball snaps, and we crash into each other, helmet to helmet, and I'm trying to drive him. I get my shoulder to the inside like I need, at least, and I push the end out, away from the run before the ball is blown dead on a four-yard gain. "Just wait, bitch. I've got your ass."

"Who the fuck is that guy?" I wonder as I go back to the huddle. “Is he trying to be me or something?”

"Don't you remember?" Tyler asks, laughing. “You showed him up pretty bad last year, and I’m sure you rubbed it in good after. I think he’s got it in for you.”

"Oh, yeah," I recall, thinking back to last year's WP game. It was a night game, though I didn’t quite remember the specifics. It was just another game for me.

Dropping into my stance, I get ready to run my route, a release to the flat that could net us good yardage.

I fire off, spinning off the defensive end who overextended himself trying to fight me, and into the flat. Tyler sees me open and tosses it nicely. I snag the pass and turn up field, getting tackled by two men for a twelve-yard gain. We’re off to a good start, and as Tyler comes over, he’s grinning. "We’ve got this. Clement, here we come."

The drive continues, and I line up on the left side, standing up as we spread the field, and when the ball snaps, I pop the linebacker covering me, going over the middle on a crossing X pattern. I turn and see the ball and catch it, going up before the free safety hits me, stopping my momentum. The ball blows dead, and I get to my hands and knees when suddenly, a huge weight crushes into my back, and I feel my elbow give way in a crunching snap that causes me to scream. A scuffle breaks out between the teams, but I can't do anything but lie on the turf, holding my arm and trying to stop screaming, it hurts so damn bad.

* * *

"How is it, Coach?"

We're at University Hospital, and I'm still in my game pants, but they took off my shoulder pads, although I wish they hadn't cut my jersey off. I liked that jersey. It lasted me through a year and a half without being replaced.

Coach Thibedeau shakes his head. "We don't know yet, Duncan. The doc's going to get the X-rays back in a few minutes and—"

"Not me, Coach. The game. Did we win?"

Coach swallows, then shakes his head. "Thirteen to seventeen. We couldn't punch it through for one last touchdown."

"Who did it? I never saw who hit me."

"The defensive end . . . Petersen. He got ejected for it, at least."

I chuckle mirthlessly, then look out the window. "So Clement and Willamette for the conference championship."

Coach Thibs nods, then comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Don't sweat it. You did everything possible, all season long. Twelve hundred plus yards receiving, twenty-one touchdowns . . . those are conference records that'll stand for a long time among tight ends."

"We've still got a bowl game to worry about," I reply when the curtain pulls back and the doctor comes in. "Well, Doc?"

"I wouldn't be looking for a bowl game, if I were you," Doctor Lefort says. Guess I'm lucky he was on duty tonight. "I can't confirm it until we get an MRI tomorrow, but you aren't using that elbow for a while. You're going to need surgery."

"What's the deal? Rough guess, Doc?"

He looks at me, curious, then continues. "Nothing's broken, bone-wise. But you've at least partially torn the anterior band of your elbow joint, and it's my guess, the biceps tendon too. That crunch you told me about was your elbow bending the direction it's not supposed to bend."

Coach Bainridge comes in, his face grave. "How's it going, Duncan?"

I force a smile to my face and sit up. "Not bad, Coach. Just need to rub some dirt in it, and I'll be good."

Coach Thibedeau is looking at me like I'm out of my mind, and even Dr. Lefort is shaking his head. "Duncan, did you hear what the doctor said? You need surgery."

I look at Coach Thibs and shake my head. "No. What I heard is that I have partial tears of a ligament and a tendon. Partial tears. Not total. So it's something that can wait until January. We've got a bowl game to win, and I intend to help the team do it."

Coach Bainridge looks at Thibs and gives him a thumb. He gets the message and gathers up Dr. Lefort to leave the exam room. Once we have privacy, Coach B sits on the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"

I take a few seconds to think about how I want to say what I want to say. Finally, the words come to me. "For four years, I've been an arrogant, greedy, selfish asshole. I've hurt this team as much as I've helped it, and I can't make up for that. For these last few games, since my suspension, I've tried, and I've found something out.”

"What's that?"

I look at him and smile. "I love football. Not the fame—I mean, that's cool too—and not the money that might come in the next few years. I love the game. I've loved being part of this team. And I won't let this team down again. So if that MRI says I can move my elbow at all, that I can even bend my arm, then I'm going to be out there. We can worry about the surgery afterward."

Bainridge shakes his head. "Duncan, if you go out there in a bowl game, you're putting your entire future at risk. One wrong hit to that elbow, and your biceps tendon gets fully torn off the bone. You lose at least a year to rehab, and nobody's going to draft a tight end with a bad bicep in the first round. You'll be lucky to get a third-round pick—if you can even play at all."

"It's my career, Coach. Besides, there are things—" my voice catches, and emotion chokes at my throat. "There are things more important than football. That's why I have to do it."

"Tell me. Tell me why, or else I put you down as unable to play in the report to the AD."

In my mind, I see Carrie, and the words come easy. "Because I love her. Because I need to be a good man for her. A good man . . . he'd go out and fight with his team."

Coach studies me for a minute, then nods his head. "Okay, fine, but you could be making a huge mistake. I guess I get to tell you now that the team got the invite right before I came to see you. We're going to be playing in the Sunshine Bowl."

I nod, somewhat pleased. "Sunshine, huh? That's in Florida, right?"

"Yep. Not a New Year's Bowl, though, but right after Christmas. It doesn't give you a lot of time to heal up."