It didn’t seem possible that a ball thrown thirty yards in the air could land so softly. But it did, nestling into Coby’s outstretched hands as he crossed the goal line. He felt the safety’s hand slap haplessly against his left shoulder, and let out a scream of triumph.  He spat out his mouthpiece, noticing it was smeared with blood. His adrenaline must have been running so high he hadn’t noticed how he’d been cut.

Coby turned the ball in his hand, and hammered it on the ground as hard as he could.  His teammates were racing downfield to meet him; Doug Baldwin was closest and got there first.  Coby leapt in the air and the two bumped chests, and then he looked to where Andrew Luck followed, his arms raised in the air.

But as Andrew reached the five, he slowed down.

Coby charged out of the end zone to greet him, as Andrew came to a full stop at the two and his arms fell to his sides.

“YEAH!” Coby yelled into his face, grinning.  Andrew responded with no words, simply a dazed expression and a set of glazed, faraway eyes.

“Hodor,” Andrew murmured.

“Ha ha, what?” Coby replied, punching Andrew’s chest in exultation.

“Hodor,” he repeated.

The smile faded from Coby’s face.  “You okay, buddy?”  He spat, noticing more blood.

“Hodor.”

And then, from nowhere, Coby heard the word spoken in his own voice.

—

Chudz had made the call to go deep. Surely Chuck Pagano had given his mark of approval privately, but if it didn’t work, he would disavow it publicly and have Chudz’s head on a pike by midnight.

Khalil Mack set up in the outside linebacker spot. It wasn’t a surprise.  Mario Edwards Jr. was set at defensive end.  The defensive tackle on the strong side – normally Dan Williams – was someone Coby didn’t recognize.  #93 – a rookie?  Coby supposed the Raiders wanted fresh legs out here for the final push.  He watched the defense take their stances, and got into his own.

Luck stepped in behind the center.  “Ho-dor”, he bellowed, indicating no change to the protection scheme. Fleener was to stay in and block, and pray that Mack’s assignment was to slip into a short zone just past the line of scrimmage to prevent the tight end from leaking out – rather than crash the line and chase down Luck like he’d done twice already during the day. Given the down and distance, the odds were good that Mack was supposed to play the pass.  Based on the play call, Coby knew that Chudz was counting on it.

At the second “Hodor” of Luck’s snap count, Mack looked up, and his eyes locked with Coby’s. He winked.

Coby’s eyes widened as Luck shouted his final “Hodor” and the ball was snapped. Mack burst through a cloud of his own frozen breath and he lunged forward.

But instead of looping around to the outside, demanding a one-on-one against Coby, he crashed inside, darting across the face of the right tackle Joe Reitz. A classic stunt maneuver; Mack would tie up the tackle while Mario Edwards Jr. waited for him to cross, and then essentially traded places with him on the line.

Coby wasn’t surprised to see the tackle move to engage Mack, and was even less surprised when the two of them slid upfield together and Edwards appeared behind them hurtling towards him. Edwards was a monster, a twenty stone mountain of muscle, but at least Coby knew what his task was. He could slow him down enough for Luck to get the pass off. He knew he could.

But something wasn’t right.

Most of Edwards’ movement was lateral. He crossed into Mack’s original pass rushing lane, but then he kept on sliding sideways before he slammed into Coby. Coby used Edwards’ momentum to push him even further outward. And then Coby glanced back at Mack.

Mack hadn’t just crashed into the tackle, he’d pushed all the way inside to take on the guard. He’d intentionally drawn himself a double team, leaving – Coby realized as Edwards eagerly absorbed his block, pulling both of them wide outside of the pocket – a gigantic gap between the right tackle and himself.

A gap that was about to be filled by #93.

“Ungh!” Coby grunted against his mouthpiece as he saw the defensive tackle slip behind the crossing tangle of bodies and into the gap. Edwards hit him in the chest, and as Coby exhaled roughly his mouthpiece slipped from between his teeth and fell out the bottom of his facemask. Edwards hit him again, and Coby tasted blood as he bit his own cheek.

The right tackle Reitz had realized what was happening. His head turned as he tried to disengage from the rolling ball of butcher knives in Mack that dragged both him and the guard away from the gap. #93 – the defensive tackle – began lumbering towards the pocket.

Reitz reached out, but it was already too late. Their hips were already even.  There was no way to block him.

“Hold him!” Coby screamed at the right tackle as the unfettered defensive tackle surged forward towards Luck, who stood vulnerable in the pocket. Luck, whose eyes were locked downfield to where T.Y. Hilton streaked towards the end zone with the safety Karl Joseph half a step behind him.

And suddenly Coby remembered the player’s name.

“Orr!” he shouted in futility, as the beast of a man raced forward, a massive black figure moving against the snow, an object of unquenchable malice. Like winter itself.

“Hold Orr!” Coby screamed, now through a mouthful of blood.

“Hold Orr!”

“Hold Orr!”

“Hold Orr!”