The Rivalry

Our offense lined up on Michigan’s 25-yard line. Breath visibly streamed from beneath facemasks, but everyone else held theirs as our quarterback delivered the count. As soon as the ball was snapped, players collided with each other.

It was a running play. The carrier pushed through a hole, fought through a tackle, and—

The ball was stripped from his hands! Another fumble.

“No!” I cried. “Again?”

The ball bounced on the grass as all the players chased after it, and my hope died as a blue jersey fell on it.

The smattering of Ohio State fans in the crowd looked stunned. Some pulled their hair out. Others covered their mouth as if wanting to hold in their shock. A fist fight between fans started but was quickly broken up by security.

Reality fell on me faster than the snow. We were going to lose.

Courtney’s voice was as sad as I felt. “If they score . . . Game over.”

Michigan’s offense hustled onto the field and huddled up, and my gaze locked onto Jay’s back. They’d scored on our last turnover, and even though it shouldn’t have, watching him celebrate with his team had felt a little like a slap in the face.

We were positioned on the side of Michigan’s end zone, and I wasn’t sure I could watch as the teams came together on OSU’s 25-yard line, all the way on the other side of the field. Anxiety and anticipation churned like a violent ocean in the stadium. We had to stop them from scoring, or force an interception, or . . . something. My gaze flicked up to the jumbotron, and I willed myself not to blink.

The ball snapped to Radcliff, and a wall of Ohio State players surged forward.

Had the Michigan quarterback’s demons come back to haunt him? The ball squirted out of his hands and dropped to the ground, bouncing away. He rushed to the side and fell on it a split-second before two OSU players did.

A yellow flag sailed onto the grass. “Flag on the play.” The announcer was emotionless. “Personal foul by Michigan thirty-two. Facemask. Loss of fifteen yards.”

Finally, he gets the facemask call, I wanted to scream. Where the hell was that ref during the Purdue game?

The penalty breathed new hope into us. The line of scrimmage was now all the way back at the seven. The huddle broke. My gaze was glued to the enormous screen at the top of the stadium, and I swallowed hard. Our defense was outstanding. Could we sack Radcliff and score a safety?

The ball was tossed into the quarterback’s hands. He pump-faked, and I watched his eyes shift from one receiver to another. Decision made, he reared back and then set it loose. I clenched the pom-poms in my frozen fingers, and dropped my gaze from the screen to the field as the ball spiraled flawlessly . . .

. . . into Jay’s hands.

The crowd roared at the perfect hookup between quarterback and tight end. Whatever route Jay had run, it had fooled Tariq, but not for long. As Jay tucked the ball and turned downfield, his opponent picked up steam.

It was both horrifying and beautiful to watch them run. Jay blew past the forty-five. He crossed the forty. Tariq was gunning for him, but Jay stayed ahead, maintaining a bubble of safety. Every step brought eighty-eight closer to both me and the end zone.

“No, no! Get him!” Sean’s voice was loud in my ear, but I said nothing.

I . . . didn’t want Tariq to catch him.

The slightest smile crept across my face. It widened as Jay sprinted past the thirty.

Then, the twenty-five.

“Go,” I said softly. “Go. Go!”

I started to bounce on my toes when he was at the twenty, and it graduated to full-out jumping at the fifteen. Tariq had closed the gap and was gaining on Jay, who only needed to outrun him ten more yards.

“Go, go go!” I screamed, my voice as loud as it ever had been, and for a split second, Jay’s helmet turned.

“Take his head off!” Sean yelled.

Courtney joined in. “Stop him!”

“Go, Jay! Go!”

Tariq vaulted forward at the five-yard line, his powerful arms outstretched. But Jay timed his own leap perfectly and avoided the tackle just long enough to break the plane into the end zone. The line judge threw his arms up, and everything descended into pure chaos.

It was madness. Total anarchy on the field. The entire Michigan sideline cleared and rushed the end zone. Security couldn’t contain the crowd. All one hundred thousand Michigan fans wanted on the field and seemed to flood the grass simultaneously.

I was swept up with them, jostled between drunk students and grown men who were crying tears of joy, and was propelled to the end zone. I should have felt anguish at the Ohio State loss, but I didn’t. I had the intense urge to find the guy who’d just scored the game winning touchdown against us, but not to murder him. To congratulate him. To put my lips on his and maybe never stop kissing him.