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"This is our last real chance," Nolan said through his facemask. "Put Flea back in. I may be a better option than Rice. We’re only down three. If we can force overtime, this game is still alive."
Behind the metal bars of the helmet, his blue eyes were steady as stone.
Everyone had seen Rice’s last drive.
He couldn’t carry the offense.
Adam’s old ankle injury had flared again. He could not continue.
Nolan Callahan was the only choice left.
Thomas rubbed his chin.
"Do you know the formations we’ve been using tonight?"
Nolan slowly shook his head.
"Do you know how to call the cadence before the snap?"
Nolan shook his head again.
"Can you read a defense? Can you find the weak point in their coverage?"
Thomas raked a hand over his head, visibly irritated.
Nolan shook his head first.
Then he nodded.
"Probably. I think I can."
"There is no probably on a football field," Thomas muttered.
He looked toward Rice. The backup quarterback paced near the bench, nerves written all over him.
"I cannot put a quarterback on the field who has never practiced with the offense," Thomas said. "I am not even convinced you are a real quarterback."
Then his tone changed.
"But this is one final drive. Maybe I don’t need a real quarterback. Who knows? Nolan Callahan, tonight you have already surprised me too many times. Maybe you can create one more miracle."
Moments later, the announcer’s voice carried the decision to the crowd.
...
"The Normans’ coaching staff has announced a last-minute change. Adam Newman is officially out and will not participate in the final drive."
"Head Coach Thomas has decided that number 88, rookie wide receiver Nolan Callahan, will become the emergency quarterback. He replaces Adam Newman after having never taken a varsity snap at quarterback."
"He joined the team barely more than a week ago. I don’t know how to evaluate this decision, but Coach Thomas has made his call. Let’s wish him luck."
Nolan Callahan was suddenly the name on everyone’s lips.
Even with Adam out, why not Rice?
Why put in a receiver?
Whispers spread through the stands.
Katherine and Mia looked at each other and gripped each other’s hands.
Adam placed one hand on Nolan’s chest and lowered his head.
"May God give you strength, faith, and courage..."
"I may not fall under God’s jurisdiction," Nolan said, putting on his helmet.
The field looked different from behind center.
Five huge offensive linemen formed a wall in front of him. The center, crouched in the middle, looked especially massive, a human boulder preparing to snap the ball. Together, the line would become a flesh-and-blood wall, trying to protect the quarterback long enough for him to throw.
The whistle blew.
The center snapped the football back.
Nolan caught it in both hands.
Even with time nearly gone, he did not hurry. He held the ball, scanned, and waited for someone to create space.
"Throw it," Thomas muttered from the sideline, anxiety finally cracking through his face.
The coaches wanted a big pass. The players wanted a big pass. The staff wanted a big pass. The fans wanted a big pass. Even the student announcer sounded as if he were holding his breath for a bomb downfield.
Only Nolan was calm.
There was 1:50 left.
He spotted the tight end sliding into a narrow window and released a low throw with one hand. The ball came out fast, sharp, and placed where only his teammate could reach.
The tight end caught it and was dragged down almost immediately.
Seven yards.
Useful, but not enough to feel good.
"You’re done," a Hawthorne defender said as he passed Nolan with a smile.
Everyone could see the problem. The Normans’ outside receivers were being watched closely, and there was not enough time left to crawl downfield forever.
The Normans’ offense sagged.
On the second play, with the clock still running, Nolan faked the throw and handed off. The running back read it perfectly, burst through, and fell across the line to gain.
Fresh set of downs.
During the brief clock stoppage, Nolan high-fived his teammates and steadied them.
"I know you’re anxious," he said. "Don’t be. The game isn’t over."
A quarterback had to do everything at once. Organize the offense, move the ball, manage the clock, and keep eleven men tied together when panic wanted to pull them apart.
Two more short gains followed.
With fifty seconds left, Nolan dropped back two steps and leaned forward, his body curving like a drawn bow. Power moved from his legs to his hips, then through his shoulder and arm. He twisted and fired.
The football shot out like a shell.
The receiver jumped, secured it, and was tackled before he could run.
But the ball had crossed midfield.
Forty-three seconds remained.
Every heart in the stands seemed to speed up at once.
Katherine almost forgot to breathe.
"Ow." Mia pulled her hand back. Katherine had been squeezing it too hard.
On the sideline, Adam clutched the cross at his neck and murmured a prayer.
A few backups turned their backs to the field because they could not bear to watch.
Even the cheerleaders forgot their routine. Every eye locked onto number 88. Sarah among them. She stared at the name across his back.
CALLAHAN.
On the Hawthorne sideline, the players were tense too. The substitutes had left the bench and lined the edge of the field.
Their bald coach watched Nolan with a hard, calculating stare.
Only Thomas’s expression stayed the same, though he kept rubbing his chin more and more.
"The Normans’ emergency quarterback, Nolan Callahan, has shown unbelievable poise," the announcer said, voice gathering force. "He has led the team across midfield and into field-goal range. Does he spike it? Does he keep attacking?"
The whistle.
"The play is live. He does not spike. Short pass. Caught near the line of scrimmage. The Normans push another ten yards closer to Hawthorne’s end zone. Thirty-one seconds remain."
The Normans surged with new energy.
Hawthorne began to crack under the pressure of a last-minute comeback.
In the end, these were still high school players.
Panic led to mistakes.
Mistakes opened windows.
And if a window opened, Nolan did not need overtime.
He could end it.
His next throw cut through the stadium lights and found Flea on the far side. The smaller receiver turned at full speed, split two defenders, and sprinted for the end zone.
The clock hit 0:00 as Flea crossed the goal line.
"Touchdown!" the announcer screamed. "The Normans are going to the playoffs."
"An unbelievable comeback. Nolan Callahan has shown calm and confidence far beyond his age, marching the offense down the field step by step and turning defeat into victory. This was his first appearance at quarterback."
The announcer’s voice cracked from the strain.
"Ladies and gentlemen, say his name with me. Nolan Callahan!"
Hawthorne players collapsed onto the turf in despair.
The officials still organized the try. Mark put the extra point through, and the final score settled at 31-27.
Only then did the Normans’ sideline empty onto the field. The teammates who had watched Nolan engineer the final drive tore off his helmet and lifted him into the air.
"Nolan! Nolan! Nolan!"
Katherine joined the chant, happier than Nolan had ever seen her.
The world spun as he was thrown up again and again.
In that dizzying blur of lights, noise, and faces, Nolan remembered the final drive.
He had entered some kind of flow state. Everything else had vanished. Only the next read, the next throw, the next choice remained.
Then he thought of everything that had happened since joining the team.
He could learn mechanics after seeing them once. His body was almost absurdly gifted. One week of focused work could equal what took others a long time to build.
Maybe this had already gone beyond talent.
Maybe the right word was genius.
Maybe he had always had it. Maybe waking up in this life had changed something.
He did not know.
He only knew that if he had never joined the football team, he might never have discovered it.
...
"Looks like I won again." Thomas cheerfully held out his hand to Hawthorne’s coach.
The other man snorted, shook once, and walked away fast.
Watching him leave, Thomas felt a satisfaction so pure he almost wanted to grab Nolan’s head and kiss him.
Under the lights, Nolan’s short blond hair shifted as he stood without his helmet. His face was clean, bright, and handsome enough to stay in memory after a single look.
"He has to be some movie star’s son," one cheerleader said. "Sean Connery, Al Pacino..."
"They’re both dark-haired," Sarah Gellar said without thinking.
"Then Harrison Ford. Or Robert Redford."
It was the first time many of the cheerleaders had seen number 88 without a helmet. Discovering he was actually handsome sent a new burst of excitement through the line.
"Maybe he really is," Sarah said, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
For the first time, Nolan interested her.
"Wait," a brunette cheerleader said. "He came to the practice room a few days ago. Coach even joked he should join cheer."
"He’s mine," another blonde said immediately, teasing. "None of you get to steal him."
"Absolutely not. Fair competition." A girl with short black hair laughed.
"You may all be late," someone else said. "He gave Highlights an interview. He’s the one who wrote that Sarah Gellar declaration on his locker."
"Really?" Sarah brushed a hand through her blond hair, the corner of her mouth rising. "Interesting. But plenty of boys chase me. Let’s see what he does next."
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