They were only yards away, a split second left. He leaned forward to shove her out of bounds.
Chris took a last stride with her right leg toward the sideline. But instead of continuing, she dug her foot into the turf, hitting the brakes. The player flew by in front of her. His feet went out from under him as he tried to reach back, but Chris had already hit the gas again.
She still couldn’t hear the crowd, but now it was because they were almost silent, mouths open.
The last defender had expected to merge with his teammate and sandwich her just inside the five. That was off the table now, and the footrace was on. He had the edge in distance and speed, but nothing was settled yet.
Chris had no more “Reggie” cuts in her bag of tricks. No argument that she’d be tackled inside the two. It was just a question of geometry.
She reached full sprint speed and left her feet like a track star in the long jump. Except this time it was headfirst. The Raiders player had been expecting that, and dove to hit her at the waist, hoping to drive airborne Chris off the field.
As she was coming down, Chris stretched out an arm and reached as far left as she could, swiping the tip of the ball against the orange pylon in the front corner of the end zone.
The referee’s arms went up. Touchdown. No need for that overtime.
Players and fans swarmed the field. The insane jumping in the home team’s stands would have registered on seismic instruments.
Calhoun and Reggie stood on their toes at the fence. They couldn’t have been happier as they watched the team carry Chris off the field on their shoulders.
Chapter 38
Celebration
Car horns honked nonstop all over town. Screaming on Main Street. People whipped team towels in circles over their heads. The epicenter of the bedlam, of course, was Max’s Shake Spot.
Chris was the talk and the toast. She was still carrying the game ball that the head coach had presented to her. No way she would be allowed to pay for anything tonight. And not just Chris. Max himself came out and made the announcement personally: All players eat free tonight.
“Hooray!”
The revelry continued into the night, players becoming bloated on free burgers, chocolate shakes and root beer floats.
“Pahokee! . . . Pahokee! . . . Pahokee! . . .”
Players took selfies and group photos with cell phones. The students, especially the seniors, knew this was a night they would well remember into the decades to come.
And for the first night all season, there were an unusually large number of white people. It wasn’t suspicious. It was the usual suspects from the scouting ranks across the southeast and all the way up to Ohio and Michigan. They knew the delicate line of what they could and couldn’t say to avoid violating eligibility. All night long: “Great game! Here’s my card. Florida State . . .” “. . . Here’s my card. Georgia Tech . . .” “. . . Auburn . . .” “. . . Ole Miss . . .”
Former coach Calhoun arrived and headed toward a picnic table, smiling bigger than he had in years. Chris suddenly noticed him in the crowd. She jumped up and gave him a strangling hug. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
“Easy, you’ll break my neck,” said Calhoun. “And I should be the one thanking you. At my age, you don’t think there’s much more to learn in life, but you’ve taught me so much.”
A Plymouth pulled up and emptied. Serge led the gang through the crowd.
“Uh-oh,” said Calhoun. “I think you have some more fans.”
“Chris!” said Serge, shaking her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you! Such an inspiration in our times of crisis!”
“Uh, do I know you?”
“No, but I’m a friend of a friend of Coach Calhoun.”
“Then you’re my friend.”
More students arrived and crowded round the table. “That was fantastic!” “You were great!”
Cheyenne tugged Serge by the sleeve. “We should let her be with her friends. It’s her big night.”
“I was going to start a wave in her honor, but I’ll defer to your female judgment,” said Serge. “That’s my new life motto: When in doubt, ask a woman. Because us guys are doing such a bang-up job, right?”
She tugged his sleeve harder. “There are some seats in back . . .”
Chris said she had to go to the bathroom.
“Too much information.”
“Just hold my seat.”
She walked around the dark side of the building for the restrooms.
“Chris!” someone yelled. “Great game!”
She turned around. “Thanks . . . Do I know you?”
“Doubt it,” said the man in the cab of the pickup. “I’m a college scout. If only you were a boy . . . I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
“I know what you meant.” She grabbed the handle of the door to the women’s room.
When she walked out moments later: “Could you come here a second?”
“Why?”
“We don’t recruit girls for football in Division One, but you’re a natural,” said Crack. “There are a number of sports you could easily adapt to.”
Chris walked halfway to the truck. “Like what?”
“Tell me what else you play,” said the captain. “You’re probably thinking we’re just trying to comply with Title Nine, which we are. But this is no charity: You can definitely play. Full scholarships rarely come along for girls. Ever try volleyball? Lacrosse?”
A couple more steps. “I really haven’t tried any other sports.”
Captain Crack opened his door and stepped out. “Let me show you these brochures from the school I represent.”
“What school did you say that was?”
“I didn’t.”
And before Chris knew it, Crack had her by the arm, twisting hard. She yelped as he tried pushing her into the pickup. She was putting up a lot more fight than he had expected from a girl, but a sock in the jaw ended that nonsense.
Two boys came around the side of the building, yucking it up. Chris screamed from the open window as the pickup patched out.
The boys raced back to the picnic table. “Some guy just snatched Chris!”
“What? Who?”
“I got a picture on my cell phone.” He held it up.
Someone leaned over his shoulder. “I know that truck!” yelled Ricky. “I know that guy. I’ll never forget him as long as I live!”
It took mere seconds for alarm to sweep the crowd. Serge burst through and saw the phone. “I overheard you say that you know where he took her?”
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Ricky.”
Calhoun frantically pushed his way in. “What’s going on? Where’s Chris?”
“No time,” said Serge. “Seconds are precious . . . Ricky! Coleman! Come with me! . . . Coach, take the others in your car and follow us!”
Soon the Plymouth was barreling out of town, out into the darkness of flowing cane stalks. The needle spiked at over a hundred, leaving Calhoun and the others in the dust. Ricky filled Serge in along the way: His own beating in the cane fields years earlier, sure he was going to die until his rescue. Then the murder of his rescuers in the exact same spot, which the authorities ruled to be a drug deal gone sour, but Ricky knew better.