The bathroom door clicked shut behind Mireya, and the house went quieter.
The light over the vanity was too clean. It showed everything. It showed the shine on the faucet, the way the counter didn’t have the little water spots, the way the towels were folded like somebody had practiced. She crossed to the sink and dropped her dress on the edge, the fabric pooling dark and soft against stone.
On the counter, the clutter wasn’t messy. It was arranged. Bottles with heavy glass and neat labels. A hair tie looped around the base of something expensive like it belonged there. A brush laid bristles-up in a cup. Bobby pins in a shallow dish. A tube of mascara left open, the wand angled like whoever used it had been in a rush but still had time to come back and fix it later.
It was a woman’s space. A vanity that had been lived in.
Mireya stood still and looked at herself in the mirror.
The edges of her makeup had run under her right eye, dark smudged in a thin crescent. Her hair was still done, still held, but the damp along her hairline gave away the heat in the room she’d been in. She stared a second longer than she meant to, eyes steady on her own.
She reached for the fancy-looking jar on the counter. The lid was heavy. When she lifted it, the cotton pads inside were stacked clean and white, edges perfect. She pinched one and it came out soft.
She dampened it, then leaned toward the mirror and wiped under her eye, slow and careful. The pad dragged the dark line away without stinging. She checked, adjusted, wiped again, until the skin under her eye looked like skin again. Then she tossed the pad into the little trash can and held her gaze in the mirror.
Her hands moved to the hem of her dress. She pulled it up and over her head. It caught for a second at her shoulders and then slid free.
A perfume bottle sat near the back of the counter, the kind that looked expensive even before you picked it up. The label read Baccarat Rouge 540.
Mireya’s eyes stayed on it for a beat. Then she reached and wrapped her fingers around the glass. Cool against her skin. The cap came off with a soft click. She sprayed once on the inside of her wrist. A fine mist landed and cooled, then warmed.
She lifted her wrist to her nose and breathed in.
It hit sharp at first, sweet and clean. Then it settled into something deeper. Something that clung. Mireya nodded once, small.
She opened her clutch on the counter. She dropped the bottle inside. The glass made a muted thud against the lining. She shut the clutch again.
At the sink, she turned on the water and washed her hands. She rubbed her palms together, then scrubbed her fingers rough. She rinsed. Then she leaned toward the mirror again and rubbed her fingers across her lips, wiping at them the same way she’d wiped under her eye, smoothing until she was satisfied.
She patted her hands dry and took her clutch. Her shoulders squared on their own. She walked out.
The bedroom was dimmer, curtains pulled. The air felt cooler than the bathroom. The bed was made up in layers, the kind of neat that wasn’t an accident.
The man sat on the edge of it. He had a small roll of bills in his hand, held out between his fingers.
“You sure you can’t stay?” he asked.
Mireya stepped close and took the money from him. The bills were warm from his palm. She folded them once and slid them into her clutch without counting right there.
She smiled. Light. Easy.
“Next time, papi.”
She didn’t wait for him to say anything back. She turned and walked out of the room.
…
The key turned in the apartment door with a rough scrape, metal catching before it finally gave. She pushed it open with her shoulder and stepped inside.
Her hair was wet, water still darkening the ends and dampening the hoodie where it brushed her back. Leggings hugged her legs, clean and plain. She held Camila on her hip, her daughter asleep so deep her mouth had fallen open a little, one small hand resting loose against Mireya’s chest.
Mireya moved through the apartment without turning on more lights than she had to.
She sang softly in Spanish as she walked, low enough it was barely sound. A little tune that stayed steady even when her steps shifted to keep Camila from jostling awake. Camila didn’t stir. She just breathed warm against Mireya’s hoodie, weight heavy and trusting.
Mireya pushed open Camila’s bedroom door with her elbow and slipped inside. The room was dim. Mireya leaned over and eased Camila down onto the mattress, careful.
Camila sighed once and turned her face into the pillow, hair fanning out. Mireya dropped to her knees beside the bed and ran her hand over Camila’s hair, slow and gentle, smoothing it back. She stayed there a moment, watching Camila’s chest rise and fall, watching her sleep.
Then Mireya stood and left the room.
In the kitchen, she went straight to her bag. Her fingers found the laptop by feel. She pulled it out, the weight familiar and solid in her hands. She didn’t linger. She turned back toward Camila’s room with it tucked against her side.
Back in the bedroom, she set the laptop down first, placing it where she could reach it without knocking it over. Then she leaned down and picked Camila back up. Camila stayed asleep through it, limbs loose, head settling into Mireya’s chest like it knew the spot.
Mireya sat down against the wall beside the bed, knees bent, back pressed to the paint. She shifted Camila onto her chest so her daughter lay across her, warm and heavy, breath steady. Mireya adjusted just enough to keep Camila’s face turned comfortably, then pulled the laptop into her lap.
She opened it. The screen lit the room in a pale square, catching on Camila’s eyelashes, the soft curve of her cheek. Mireya tipped the screen angle so it wouldn’t shine straight into Camila’s eyes.
A page loaded. Notes and headings and the shape of work that didn’t care how late it was.
Mireya set her fingers on the keys and opened what she needed for her next final.
~~~
The last question drifted out of the reporter line and didn’t get replaced right away, just a brief pocket of air where the field noise slid back in. A far-off whistle. A camera shutter chattering like a bug.
The podium sat on the side of the field, temporary and squared off. Microphones crowded the top edge. The grass behind it was clipped short and bright, the white lines too clean to belong to anything but a stage.
Coach Aplin stood with his shoulders loose, hands down, the kind of calm coaches wore when they knew every word would get pulled apart later. Coach Desormeaux stood beside him, posture straight, face set into something neutral and practiced. Between them, Sun Belt commissioner Keith Gill held the microphone close, the last of the press conference already winding down.
Georgia Southern’s players stood to one side of the podium in a clustered line, a wall of hoodies and team gear, bodies angled toward the cameras. ULL’s players stood opposite, their own block of color and muscle, close enough that everyone’s breath kept mixing in the same strip of air. Reporters waited in the middle, phones up, recorders running, each of them watching for whatever was coming after the coaches stopped talking.
Caine stood at the front of the Georgia Southern group, half a step ahead without meaning to. His hands stayed on the drawstrings of his hoodie, fingers curled around them. He didn’t move much. His gaze stayed forward, tracking the podium and the faces behind the microphones, taking in the little shifts and the way people leaned when they thought the good part was about to start.
Aplin answered one more question with something short and coach-smooth. Desormeaux answered the next one the same way. Gill nodded along, eyes moving between them, then toward the reporter line as if he could see the moment the questions were done before the reporters did.
The last question landed. The last answer came. A few murmured thank-yous moved through the press line.
Gill lifted a hand, not a wave, more a signal. The reporter line quieted. He glanced off to the side and motioned again, sharper.
A couple of his assistants moved in carrying trophies, the metal and polished surfaces catching the daylight and throwing it back in hard flashes. The sight of them changed the posture of everyone around the podium. Georgia Southern’s players shifted forward. ULL’s players straightened. Reporters tightened in, microphones lifting higher, camera lenses angling up.
Gill stepped back into the microphone, voice smooth.
“We typically send these to the players’ schools after we announce them,” he said. “But I figured since we have a bit of an unprecedented winner this year. And since he’s here and we’re here, we decided to do something a little unprecedented. The press release should be up now on our website, so I won’t bore you with all of the details of that.”
He paused just long enough for the cameras to settle.
“I’ll just say Georgia Southern has been quite the story this year,” Gill continued, “not only for themselves and this university but also the conference and the nation.”
A low sound ran through Georgia Southern’s side, not words, more a ripple of bodies bracing to explode.
“At the center of all of that is one, young man,” Gill said. “Caine Guerra.”
The first slap hit Caine’s shoulder before the name fully finished in the air. Another hand cracked against the back of his head, not hard, just loud. Someone behind him yelled his name, voice rough with pride. Caine kept his feet planted, hands still on his drawstrings, jaw set steady. He let the noise wash over him.
“So,” Gill said, and now the press line leaned forward, “it’s my honor as the commissioner of the Sun Belt Conference to announce Caine as this year’s Sun Belt Player of the Year… and Sun Belt Offensive Player of the Year… and Sun Belt Newcomer of the Year… and, yes there’s more, Sun Belt Freshman of the Year.”
Georgia Southern’s side erupted, a loud, layered shout that came with more hands landing on Caine’s shoulders and upper back. A few ULL players clapped, polite, contained. The press clapped too, softer, their eyes already turning into calculations.
“Oh, and one more,” Gill added, holding up a finger. “Sun Belt First Team All-Conference.”
He let it sit for a beat, then pointed straight at Caine.
“Come up here, Caine!”
The Georgia Southern group opened just enough to make him a path, teammates still thumping him as he stepped out. A palm hit his shoulder. Another quick slap landed at the base of his neck and pulled away. The cheering stayed high and steady behind him, messy and real.
Caine walked up through it, the turf bright under his shoes, cameras clicking in bursts. He climbed the short steps onto the platform and reached out to shake Gill’s hand. The commissioner’s grip was firm and dry, the kind that held just long enough for the photos.
Caine turned and shook Coach Desormeaux’s hand next. Desormeaux’s grip was solid, face composed, courtesy clean and controlled.
Then Caine faced Coach Aplin.
Aplin didn’t keep it small. He grabbed Caine’s hand and pulled him in, wrapping an arm around him in a quick hug. Aplin’s hand smacked Caine’s back once, twice, then a third time, loud enough that it read through the microphones as a dull beat.
Gill stepped back to the microphone again, trophies now arranged where the cameras could catch the shine. He looked at Caine.
“Caine, you want to say anything?”
Caine leaned over instead of taking the mic. His voice came out even.
“We got one more to win tomorrow.” He tipped his chin toward his teammates, the words turning casual. “GATA, huh, boys?”
Georgia Southern answered in one loud shout, the kind that didn’t need coaching.
“GATA!”
Caine stood shoulder to shoulder with Coach Aplin as the photographers called for them to look up, to hold still, to lift the trophies into the frame. Aplin angled in close, grinning, hand firm at Caine’s back, and the Georgia Southern players kept shouting behind them while the cameras kept firing.
~~~
Trell sat in the back corner of the soul food restaurant, where the walls met and the room couldn’t get behind him. The booth was vinyl, cracked in thin white lines from years of bodies sliding in and out. Grease lived in the air. So did aged leather, old and sharp, trying and failing to win.
Ant sat tight beside him, shoulders square, back to the corner so he could see both the kitchen door and the front door at the same time. His eyes moved without his head moving.
Dez sat at the table in front of them, turned the wrong way for comfort, his back to Trell, planted between Trell and the front door. His knee bounced once under the table and then he locked it down, foot flat, as if he’d caught himself doing it.
They were the only customers. Behind the counter an old man worked slow, wiping at the same spot with the same rag. The register sat open. A small fan pushed warm air around without cooling anything. Blues played on a jukebox in the corner, a voice dragging through a story that didn’t rush for anybody.
The bell over the door rattled.
Three men walked in. Their shoes tracked in grit from the lot. One of them threw up two fingers to the old man behind the counter, voice loud enough to make it known he belonged in here.
“What it do, Mack?”
The old man didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look happy either. He kept his rag moving and answered the way he always answered, flat as the counter.
“Can’t call it.”
The man who spoke moved like he owned his steps. He came to Trell’s table and dropped into the seat across from him. The other two stayed standing behind him, shoulders wide, hands visible but not soft.
Dez’s chair scraped when he got up. He pushed back from the table and shifted to the side so those two weren’t behind him anymore.
Ant’s hand disappeared under the table and came back up with a pistol that had been resting on his lap. He set it where it could be seen, the metal dull under the dim lights. His finger hovered over the trigger, not touching it, close enough to promise what would happen if the room turned wrong.
The man in the seat looked at the pistol. Then he looked at Ant. A laugh snorted out of him, short, amused.
“I see prison ain’t chill you out none.”
Ant’s face stayed still. His voice didn’t lift.
“Did the opposite.”
Trell leaned forward a fraction, not rushing, just joining the line of sight so he was the one being dealt with. His hands came up, palms open, the posture easy.
“Pat, bro, I thought we went way back. What’s the problem, man?”
Pat smiled. Gold teeth flashed in the low light.
“I just ain’t like the numbers no more. Peanut used to be more negotiable.”
Trell kept his hands up a second longer, then eased them down to the table, fingers relaxed.
“Peanut ain’t here no more though. We all making money, right? Let’s not squabble over a couple pennies on the dollar.”
Pat’s smile softened into something that wasn’t friendly. He shook his head once, slow.
“You know them niggas in Houston be coming over here tripping and shit so we gotta make sure we got a war chest and that mean going from 15 a key to 12.”
The blues song on the jukebox hit a long note and held it. The old man behind the counter shifted his weight, eyes down, still working his rag. Dez stayed standing now, hands at his sides, body angled so he could see the door without turning all the way around.
Trell leaned back in his chair, letting the booth take his shoulders. His voice stayed light, almost curious.
“That’s the problem? You need some poles? Why you just ain’t ask me, my nigga?”
Pat’s eyebrows lifted. He looked over Trell’s face, searching for the edge, the crack, the place where bluff would show.
“You can get your hands on what we need?”
Trell’s laugh came easy. He shook his head.
“Man, nigga, I just got back from Miami getting a link up with some crazy white boys in the Everglades.”
Ant’s voice slid in behind that, low and steady.
“Some militia type peckerwoods.”
Pat’s posture shifted. The two men behind him watched him, waiting for the cue. Pat didn’t look back at them. He just nodded once, then motioned with his hand for them to sit down. The motion was casual but it changed the room. Chairs scraped as they pulled out seats. The angle of bodies turned from standing threat to seated business.
Pat’s smile came back, wider now, as if the air had warmed to him.
He turned his head toward the counter and raised his voice.
“Say Mack, you got some of them chitlins and tripe?”
Mack didn’t stop wiping. He answered like it was the easiest question he’d gotten all day.
“I always got chitlins and tripe.”
Pat pointed at the menu board, still grinning.
“Bring us a couple bowls.”
Trell shook his head and laughed again, softer this time, like he couldn’t help himself.
“You a country ass nigga.”
Pat just smiled, gold catching the light when he leaned back in his chair.
“We y’all cousins so y’all is, too. Now, let’s talk about these guns.”
~~~
The stadium was already loud, packed to the brim. Shades of red and blue ringed around the bleachers. The sun sat high and pale over the stands, washing the field in its light without a cloud in the sky.
Caine stood on the sideline, his helmet pushed up on his forehead, hands tucked into the warmer at his back. He rocked back onto his heels once then forward onto his toes, eyes locked onto the field.
Walker Howard dropped back to pass. Chance and the receiver’s hands fought as they battled for leverage. Caine shook his head as he watched Howard go through his progressions. The receiver planted his left foot then whipped around to his right.
“That’s it,” Caine said under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Howard ripped the ball down the field, straight into the receiver’s chest. He turned up field and picked up a few more before Devin was able to drag him down. The referee signaled the first down.
The crowd groaned. Caine’s jaw worked once.
Then they slipped Bill Davis out of the backfield for a screen pass and another big chunk play.
…
“Davis is dragged down in the endzone and the Cajuns are going to draw first blood here in the Sun Belt Conference Championship game!”
“I don’t think Georgia Southern has trailed in a game since they played Clemson so we’ll have to see how they handle being behind for once.”
…
Caine settled into his stance, motioning for the crowd to quiet down as he shouted adjustments to the offensive line.
“Green 80…. Green 80… Seeet, Go, Go!”
Chandler snapped the ball back to him. He caught it, rotating it to get the laces. He dropped back, eyes scanning through his progressions. Hitch, no. In, no. Over, no.
His eyes dropped to the pass rush. A defensive tackle tore through the blocks and sprinted toward him. Caine turned and dumped the ball off to David in the flats before the ULL defender could get his hands on him.
David caught it and tore up turf as he picked up the first down before being shoved out of bounds.
…
“Guerra is going to keep that and he can move! Freezes a defender with a stutter step and gets out of bounds at the Cajun 41!”
…
They were facing third and long on the 28.
Caine dropped back and immediately got out of the pocket as the edge rushers shoved the tackles back into it. He drifted to his right, keeping his shoulders squared downfield.
Josh settled down between two zones but the linebacker saw Caine looking in that direction and got more depth, closing the window. Caine pointed to the other hashes.
Getting the message, Josh ran again, crossing behind the linebacker. Caine threw the ball, high to get it over the second level of defenders.
Josh got his hands to it, but the safety came up and punched it from behind to knock it to the turf.
Caine snapped his chinstrap off in anger as Coach Aplin sent Donal and the kicking team out to attempt the field goal.
…
“Tyson knocks that pass down. Intended for Rahji Dennis and ULL is going to have to bring out their punt team.”
…
“Guerra finds one of his favorite receivers, Trey’Dez Green for a looooooooooooong pick-up of 23 yards!”
…
“That’s another first down for Georgia Southern as Caine Guerra finds Jeremiah Ware for 15.”
…
“Ware’s got it and that’s 26 and Georgia Southern is threatening to take the lead here in the second quarter!”
…
“Kill, kill, kill!” Caine shouted, looking toward the sideline for a moment before shouting changes to the line and the receivers.
UL-Lafayette’s defense shifted to try to match the new look as Jeremiah and Dylan shifted from the left side of the field to the right.
Caine pointed at the nickel corner, getting a nod from David.
“Set, go!”
Caine held the ball out in front of him, eyes on the corner he’d just pointed to. The corner strafed to his right, staying over the top of Jeremiah as they set up a bubble screen.
Caine let David take the ball and plunge up the middle of the defense. The first two defenders who met him couldn’t bring him down as he spun back to the outside. The third didn’t have better luck, spinning him back the other direction.
Once he finally got his bearings, David burst forward toward the goal line, getting dragged into the endzone by the safeties.
Caine threw his arms up in celebration as the stadium erupted.
…
“Sterner’s first attempt of the afternoon is up and it’s good! We’ve got a tied football game here in Statesboro.”
“This game has been all that we expected so far, John!”
…
Caine dropped back, patting the ball twice as he worked through his progressions. Dylan ran a drag, clearing out the linebackers in zones 10 yards down the field.
He pumped the ball toward Dylan. The cornerback on the hashes jumped forward, ready to get in front of the ball and pick it off.
That was the reaction Caine needed.
He went back to his right and rifled the ball into Jeremiah running a drag behind Dylan.
Jeremiah caught it and split between one of the retreating linebackers and a safety and he was off to the races.
Caine ran down the field behind the play, shouting in celebration. He pinwheeled his arm as he ran along the Cajuns’ sideline.
“Yeah, bitch! Yeah!” he shouted at them, coaches needing to hold some of them back from running onto the field.
He got to the endzone with the rest of the team, all of them piling on Jeremiah.
…
“Punt by the Ragin’ Cajuns coming up here.”
…
“Dempsey’s lining up from the ULL 19. The kick is up and it’s good. Georgia Southern leads 20-10 with just 48 seconds remaining in the second quarter.”
…
Caine crouched on the sideline as the Cajuns lined up at the Eagles’ 48. Devin barked changes to the secondary. Chance rolling down, while Ayden gave his man some cushion on the opposite side of the field.
Walker Howard glanced to the sideline for any changes then shook his head and settled back into his stance. He called for the snap and the center delivered it clean.
He only took two steps back before he saw what he wanted, throwing a laser to the receiver on the outside, who caught it just in front of Ayden.
Ayden’s tackle attempt left him grasping at air and turf. Devin and Kylen were out of position to get over and make a play on it.
The receiver turned back, throwing up two fingers at the trailing Georgia Southern defenders as he crossed the goal line.
Caine sucked his teeth, hung his head for a moment then pushed off his helmet to get to his feet.
…
“Dempsey boots in his third field goal of the afternoon and the Eagles are going to start the second half by extending their lead to seven.”
…
“That’s another pass batted down by Brandon Tyson in the middle of the field! Georgia Southern’s MIKE has been playing extremely well and making Walker Howard keep the ball on the outside!”
…
“Seeet, go!”
Caine caught the ball, his feet planted firmly on the 10. His eyes flicked from receiver to defender, looking for somewhere to throw the ball this deep into the redzone.
The linebackers jumped to the left each time he swept back across the field.
Running wasn’t an option with most of the ULL defenders standing on the goal line. But he had all day to find an opening.
Josh turned around and settled in between two zones.
Caine threw the ball, low and hard at his knees.
It spiraled beyond the defenders and hit Josh right in his hands. Caine threw his arms up, signaling the touchdown.
Except Josh dropped it.
The senior looked at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.
Caine stalked toward him, voice cutting through the groans of crowd. “You gotta catch the fucking ball, man! It hit you in your fucking hands!”
Josh held his hand up, patting himself on the chest with the other. “Yeah, that’s my bad, bro.”
Caine slapped his hands together as they turned around to head off the field. “C’mon, man. Fuck!”
…
“Things go from bad to worse for Georgia Southern as Donal Dempsey shanks what should’ve been a gimme! Josh Dallas drops a pass that hits him in his hands and then Dempsey does that. Not a great outcome for the Eagles when they had a chance to make it a two-score game.”
“Uncharacteristic from this team, John.”
…
“Howard is stopped short of the first down marker and the Cajuns are going to have to punt the ball again.”
“Louisiana-Lafayette just hasn’t been able to make use of all of these chances Georgia Southern is giving them to cut into the lead or tie it. Michael Desormeaux really needs to make some changes if he hopes to make the Eagles sweat down the stretch.”
…
Caine glanced up at the clock as they broke the huddle. Just sixteen seconds left in the quarter, only twelve minutes away from a conference championship. All they needed to do was play safe down the stretch.
Caine settled into the shotgun with David and Nate either side of him. He barked out his cadence then got ready to receive the ball.
“Go!”
The snap was a little high but he was able to corral it and drop back.
His eyes flicked from Trey’Dez on a crosser going from right to left then he saw Josh with a step on his man on the slant going in the opposite direction. He set his feet to throw the slant.
But he didn’t look for the cornerback who’d passed Dylan off to someone else and sat on the slant.
The corner caught it and immediately turned up field but Josh was able to bring him down for a minimum gain. He popped up and ran over to Caine, spinning the ball at his feet.
“Yeah, nigga! Yeah, that’s me!” he shouted, mimicking strapping up a seatbelt.
Caine shoved him back with arm, shaking his head. “Scoreboard, bitch.”
…
“Howard in the shotgun as the Cajuns try to make Georgia Southern pay for that Caine Guerra interception on the last play.”
“Picking off Caine Guerra is almost like hitting the lottery, John. That’s only his fifth pick of the season and he hasn’t thrown one in five games. A lot of people don’t know, but he’s the most accurate quarterback in the country. Incompletions are rare, interceptions are almost non-existent.”
“Howard gets the snap, fakes it to Davis. Big hit from Stroud! And the ball’s out! The ball’s out! Pendleton is the first one on! We’ll see what the referees signal when they clear the pile!”
“This would be a massive momentum swing. The Cajuns get the big play they’ve been needing and then Walker Howard puts it on the turf on the very next play!”
“They’re signaling Georgia Southern football! M.J. Stroud with the big time sack and August Pendleton with the heads up play to get on that fumble and get the ball back to their team heading into the fourth quarter!”
…
“Guerra throws that away and Georgia Southern will have to punt.”
…
“That’s another punt coming up for UL-Lafayette. They just can’t seem to get anything going here in the second half.”
…
“Guerra dumps it off to Mbadinga on the screen and he’s got a convoy ahead of him! Shoved out of bounds at the ULL 35!”
…
“Guerra finds Dallas and that’s another first down!”
…
“Ryan Aplin keeping his offense out on the field for this 4th and 3 from the Cajuns’ 18.”
“You could take the field goal here and go up 10 points, but Coach Aplin wants the ball in the hands of his best player and that player is Caine Guerra. The Cajuns aren’t going to comeback from a two-touchdown deficit with less than 3 minutes left.”
“Guerra in the shotgun. A receiver to the left, three to his right. David Mbadinga in the backfield. Here’s the snap. It’s clean. Guerra gets it out quickly to Ejiofor and that’s the first down! Down at the seven!”
“See?! What’d I tell you?!”
…
“Mbadinga plows into the endzone and that might be all she wrote! Georgia Southern is an extra point away from going up 30-16 with 2:33 remaining in the game.”
…
“Howard hits Dennis for the eight yard touchdown but that drive was much too slow. There are only 28 seconds left on the clock.”
“Georgia Southern’s defense played that perfectly and they’re why this team is about to win the Sun Belt Conference championship!”
…
“Onside kick recovered by Kenneth Ejiofor and that’s that!”
…
Caine stood on the sideline, arms on David and Josh’s shoulders as the energy on the sideline reached a fever pitch.
Weston stepped up under center to take the knee to run out the rest of the clock, the fans itching to storm the field. Security did their best to hold them back even though they knew it was futile.
Weston called to the snap, took two steps back and dropped to his knee and it was as if a bomb had been set off in the stadium.
Fans streamed onto the field alongside the players as fireworks exploded in the sky over the stadium.
Caine found himself getting hoisted up on Dwight and Donnie’s shoulders as they charged toward midfield with teammates and fan alike. The Louisiana-Lafayette players doing their best to vacate the field as quickly as possible.
The chant that rose up as everyone gathered at midfield, jumping up and down as one, was one that no one could’ve expected to hear in Paulson Stadium.
“C! F! P! C! F! P! C! F! P! C! F! P!”
