Roughing the Kicker (Austin Troopers)

Chapter One

A TEX Stadium, filled with 76, 246 fans—the announced attendance—had gone quiet. A moment before, when Elliot LeFevre caught the pass to put the Troopers into field goal range, the crowd had been riotous. Now, one could practically hear a pin drop.

Ryeland Lenhart could picture the fans in their seats. Some biting their nails, others shielding their eyes as if afraid to look. Once upon a time, he’d been one of those fans, watching on TV from his childhood home in Austin as Dallas or Houston —okay, usually Dallas—played to sold-out crowds. Back then, Rye longed for his chance. The chance to not only make the team but be a hero.

Now, he had that chance. This was his moment.

Rye lined up to take the kick. In the back of his head, he thought he might have heard a whistle, but he tuned it out. A player always had to live in the moment, and Rye was ready. The snap was good. The hold was good. He struck the ball cleanly, and watched it sail high in the air, right down the middle of the goalposts.

Rye wanted to pump his fist, jump in the air and celebrate. Instead, he saw the official waving it off.

“Timeout, Oklahoma,” he hears the referee say.

Of course. Why not? They can’t take them with them.

The voice of the PA announcer crackled through the stadium speakers. “The Copperheads take their final timeout, just before the snap. Trying to ice Lenhart. He’ll have to kick it again.”

Rye cringed inwardly. This was the worst part of being a kicker. Thinking you’d made the kick to win the game, even sending your team to the playoffs, only to realize the opposing team got the timeout called just before the snap, and instead of celebrating, you have to line up and do it all over again.

No one wants to do it over again.

Sure, if you make it, you’re the hero. But if you miss, you’re the goat. And that’s not as in the Greatest of All Time.

Rye wanted to someday be considered the GOAT. Today, though, he’d settle for being the hero. Hitting the game-winning kick that could send the Austin Troopers to the playoffs.

It was fifty-two yards. Long, yes, but nowhere near the NFL record of sixty-six yards. A distance any professional kicker is expected to regularly make. And Rye did. He’d made eighty-five percent of his kicks over fifty yards this season.

Plus, the Troopers were at home. The weather conditions were nearly perfect, with virtually no wind. Rye kicked well the whole game, making a fifty-four yarder earlier. In pre-game warmups, he was hitting kicks from fifty-eight, even sixty yards.

I’ve got this.

“Lenhart lines up to retake the kick...”

Rye took a deep breath as the ball was snapped. It was a decent snap, but the holder—Patrick—bobbled it, struggling to control it. He finally got control of it just as Rye’s foot was about to strike the ball, but the laces were facing the wrong way.

Rye tried to adjust, and thought he hit the ball cleanly, but as he stepped back to watch, he saw it sailing to the left. Maybe, just maybe, it would sneak on through.

He closed his eyes. He turned into one of those fans, the ones who never wanted to look.

‘Please, go through. Please,’ he silently prayed.

But the stadium didn’t erupt in cheers of jubilation. Instead, it was silent.

Rye opened his eyes just in time to hear the announcement.

“Lenhart’s kick sails wide left, and Oklahoma will win the game, twenty-six to twenty-four. That’s your final today. Thank you for coming.”

THE LOCKER ROOM WAS a somber place after the game. The team’s playoff hopes weren’t completely dead, but they were for sure on life support after the loss. The fact that the loss came against their biggest rival made it an even tougher pill to swallow. Losing sucked. But losing to Oklahoma? Unacceptable.

The team listened as Coach Oliviera gave his usual post-game speech. The one he reserved for losses. The whole keep your chin up, stay positive, I’m pleased with the effort, it’s a long season and so on speech. Except it wasn’t a long season, not anymore. There were six games left, and in a tight playoff race, each one mattered more than the last.

With a road trip to face the defending Super Bowl Champions looming in only four days.

“It’s not your fault, Rye,” the team’s quarterback, Addison Kelly, told him on his way to the showers.

No. It was Patrick’s fault. If he had lined up the laces properly, Rye would have made the kick.

He couldn’t say that, though. He wasn’t going to be an ass and blame his teammate. There was enough blame to go around, and even with a less-than-perfect hold, Rye should have made the kick.

“Thanks, Addy,” he said to his quarterback. “You led a heck of a comeback. I’m sorry I couldn’t get us the win.”

“Next week,” Addy said, even though they all knew that playing Denver would be tough. Still, Rye loved kicking in that thin, mile high air.

After his shower, Rye dressed in the black pants and gold shirt he’d worn to the stadium. Somehow, his game day attire had seemed a lot more stylish six hours ago than it did now, after a loss. Rye lingered in front of his locker, not anxious to go home.

“Some of us are headed over to Hand Wing for a pint or two,” Addy said, and Rye knew that ‘us’ would include Addison’s boyfriend, Cal, who was the team’s back-up quarterback. “If you want to join us?”

The craft brewery in Southwest Austin was a popular hangout among the team, both because of its proximity to the team’s stadium training facility, and also because the owner, Mattias Wilson, was the brother-in-law of the team doctor. It also didn’t hurt that it made some of the best IPAs in town.

Rye used to love joining the guys for a drink there after games, and it didn’t matter if the team won or lost. His fiancée, Kristen, often accompanied him, and they had a great time. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

He shook his head. “Thanks, but not tonight. I’m not feeling very social.”

“Yeah, I get it. I figure they’ll be showing the late game at the bar, though, and seeing Dallas lose will do a lot to improve my mood.”

Rye couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Now that’s true.”

Addison ran a hand through his damp hair. “Did Kris come to the game?”

“No. She hasn’t been feeling well.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. “That’s why I’m anxious to get home.” Okay. That was a total lie.

“Too bad,” the quarterback said. “Tell her we all hope she gets better.”

“Thanks. I will.” Rye grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and car keys from his locker before shutting it. “See you tomorrow.” There would be plenty to talk about during the film breakdown of the game.

He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and made his way out of the locker room and down the corridor to the stadium exit. After a Troopers win, there were usually throngs of people hanging around outside the stadium, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite players. Today, after a loss, the stadium and parking lot had emptied out fast, and Rye could make the walk to his silver Tesla Cybertruck—his sleek new toy that Kristen said resembled a trash can—undisturbed.

He considered texting Kristen to let her know he was on his way but decided against it. Depending on if and how she replied, he might change his mind and head to the brewery with the guys, and that would be asking for trouble later. The last thing he wanted was trouble. No. Better to just leave it and hope he would get home to find Kristen in a good mood.

Rye still missed the way they used to be and the girl he’d fallen in love with at UT. These days, he rarely got glimpses of that girl and the good times they shared now seemed like a lifetime ago.