Script — Touch Football

Derek’s fingers grazed Leo’s chest. A touch. The play was dead by the rules.

He closed the notebook. For the first time in thirty years, he didn’t write a new script for next Sunday.

But scripts are lies we tell reality.

“Okay,” Leo said, his voice steady. “Touch football script. Fake screen left. Eli, you clear the safety. Jenny, curl at the sticks. Paul, you’re the flat.”

The game was tied. Thirty seconds left. The opposing quarterback, a kid named Marcus who could still throw a ball without feeling it in his elbow, smirked from the other side of the line. “Old man,” he said, “you gonna make it to the huddle?” Touch Football Script

Leo tapped his chest. “I’m rolling right. If it’s not there, I run.”

The clock read 0:00.

Then Eli was there, standing over him, breathing hard. He offered a hand.