Amid the chaos of the fumble recovery, Lance's eyes immediately locked onto Jake, who was still on the ground. This wasn't like Jake—this reaction was entirely out of character for him.
Few people knew that Jake had been abandoned by his parents and spent his early years bouncing between institutions. In middle school, he was even homeless and lived on the streets, spending nearly ten months as a wanderer.
He had to fight for scraps of food and defend his cardboard box—his only means of surviving the harsh winter nights. If it weren't for a kind-hearted person in a shelter who insisted Jake return to school and apply to college, he might have ended up a tragic statistic. Later, he met Saban and Burns, who gave him a chance to join the Crimson Tide.
So, Jake was always the silent type, expressing his gratitude through relentless training and unwavering dedication, knowing it was his only way to change his fate.
Making a mistake like fumbling the ball was bad, but if it happened, Jake's instinct was always to scramble for it, to fight to regain possession.
But today, he didn't.
The usually tenacious and combative Jake wasn't doing that now.
Lance's heart sank with a heavy sense of foreboding.
"Jesus Christ…"
Cursing under his breath, Lance ran onto the field, quickly pushing through the crowd to reach Jake. There, he found Jake curled up on the ground, clutching his knee, drenched in sweat, and pale as a ghost.
"Medics!" Lance shouted. "Medics!"
Jake was biting his lip so hard that it seemed like he was holding back a scream, with his face as white as paper.
"Lance… the football…" Jake's voice trembled with desperation, looking at Lance as if pleading for him to confirm that the possession hadn't been lost.
He couldn't bear the reality of letting his team down.
But Lance knew that both of them were spent, and Jake had pushed himself to his absolute limit. People needed to remember that Jake was only eighteen—a high school kid just months ago. This was his first season, and he had given it his all today.
Mistakes were never just simple mistakes.
But—
Hearing Clemson's players cheering behind them drove Howard and Hurts over the edge, and soon a shoving match broke out between the two teams.
Amid the commotion, Lance spun around, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
"Calm down! All of you, calm down right now!"
"What are you looking at? Pull them apart! Everyone, cool off immediately!"
"Shut up! Just shut up!"
Lance's sharp commands brought order back to his team, allowing him to refocus on Jake.
"Wanderer, stay calm and focus on your knee first," Lance urged.
Jake met Lance's gaze, his voice trembling but firm. "No, Lance, no…"
He spoke with a fierce resolve in the beginning but ended with stubborn refusal, his voice shaking. "No, I'm not leaving. I'm fine. I can still fight. I can."
The first part was almost a threat.
The latter was a plea.
It was as if Jake knew the terrible truth that awaited him and clung to Lance's arm with a vice-like grip, squeezing harder and harder, using every ounce of strength left in his body.
But Lance didn't answer.
Jake searched Lance's eyes, sinking slowly into despair.
In the end, his resolve crumbled into pitiful begging.
"Lance, please… I want to finish this game with you. I want to fight until the end. I'm not done yet, please… I can keep going, I swear!"
Each word tugged at Lance's heart, pulling it down with a heavy weight.
Hurts, watching from the side, turned away, unable to bear the sight.
But Lance couldn't look away.
Lance faced Jake directly. "Let the medics check your knee first, Wanderer. The game isn't over yet."
"Remember?" Lance's voice softened slightly. "We win together as a team, we lose together as a team, and we face challenges together as a team. You're with us. We're the Crimson Tide together, all of us—including you."
Every word, every syllable seemed to bring Jake back a little. His breathing steadied slightly, but he still couldn't let go of Lance's arm.
The medics arrived, and Jake finally released his grip. Lance moved aside to let the professionals do their work.
Their expressions were grim. They immediately called for the cart.
Things were worse than anyone expected.
Jake couldn't stand on his own, and the excruciating pain had completely overwhelmed his senses, leaving him numb.
Ligament.
That was Lance's first thought. He knew what this meant—Jake wouldn't be able to return to the game, and this was just the beginning. No one knew what would happen next or what challenges lay ahead.
In a flurry of activity, the medics lifted Jake onto the cart.
Sitting there, Jake tried to maintain his composure, lifting his chin and surveying his teammates with steady eyes.
He clapped his hands, trying to rally them.
"Roll, Crimson Tide, Roll!"
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Jake's applause was firm, his eyes radiating determination as he made eye contact with every teammate he could see.
As the cart slowly drove off the field, the Crimson Tide fans collectively stood up, their voices rising with a resolute cheer.
"Josh! Roll!"
"Josh! Roll!"
Over and over, the stadium echoed with their call.
The sight left Jake stunned. He stared blankly, his face going slack with astonishment as he watched the wave of red envelop him. Finally, he couldn't hold it in anymore. He buried his face in his hands and wept, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably, breaking under the weight of it all.
The Jake who never showed his emotions, who was always stoic and silent like a mountain, was now sobbing like a child, his head bowed low, his tears freely flowing.
Lance couldn't help but remember Jake's whispered apology just before being lifted onto the cart.
"Sorry, Lance. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
Jake had repeated it over and over, his guilt and pain pulling him down into the abyss.
A bitter taste spread over Lance's tongue.
What now?
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Powerstones?
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