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Ross

The scene on the field played out like a stop-action shot from a movie A horror movie The roar of the crowd silenced as if 80,000 fans all sucked in a collective gasp Tohts, hit the field, crushed under the weight of a three-hundred-plus-pound line any of us could do but watch fro right into the hands of the Stormers Shit Stormers, that is

I sent a wide-eyed prayer to the sky that he’d get to his feet, shake it off, and continue to play That somehow, someway, it wasn’t as bad as it looked—or sounded I looked for any signs of a penalty flag before turning my attention to the jumbotron to watch the replay in slow motion

But the seconds kept ticking, each one rolling slowly over the next Finally, the refs raced in, separating angry players as they disputed foul play With the flick of a wrist, our medical staff ran out onto the field

My eyes squeezed closed as the team doctor knelt down beside Tom and his face went dark “Shit”

“Yep we’re fucked”

I shot a scowl at Matthew Jenkins, the rookie kicker standing to my left “Eloquent, Jenkins”

He shrugged, his expression unchanged “Just stating the facts, Leverette This game’s a ithout Tom Fuck man, our season just ended!”

I dared another glance at the scene unfolding on the twenty-five-yard line Das—but in this case—he was right

Coach “Wheels” Wheeler looked a little nervous, waiting for word, as the medical staff scraped Brandon off the turf He couldn’t walk on his own That was the final nail in our coffin Soet fixed with some athletic tape and a shot of painkillers