Grey places himself right in my line of sight and squats down. The half smile he wears so well seems bigger at this angle.
“He wants you to score because he knows you can. Pass rush is extra tough just outside the red zone. Coach knows you’re mobile and won’t do something stupid with the ball, like give up an interception or stand still for a sack.”
I blink at him. I haven’t scored a thing since a two-run homer in the seventh inning of my final club game this summer. An entire month without scoring, because, let’s be honest, scoring in scrimmage doesn’t count. And somehow I get a chance to do it here and now in a sport I’ve played for just over a week.
How is this real life?
Grey pulls me over to the track for a quick game of catch, my body still warm from tossing with Brady at the half. Meanwhile, on the field, Brady covers the ball in a pretty shoddy attempt at concealment before dumping it into Jake’s hands yet again. Jake is tripped up by the defensive line for once, only gaining two yards.
Which means we need eight yards to reset the downs. Putting on my helmet, I glance to Shanks—something he’s completely expecting because his finger is already pointing to the field as he makes eye contact. “Orange Nine.”
We’re still doing the passing play.
No pressure or anything.
I get into the huddle, and it’s the weirdest sensation ever because everyone is staring at me for word of what we’re doing like I’m not the greenest of them.
“Orange Nine.”
“What?” That comes from Topps, who got promoted to first-string this week, along with Nick Cleary.
“I know.”
“Why?” This comes from Jake, whose face is curdling before my eyes.
“I have no idea, but that’s what Shanks said.”
“But—”
“That’s what Shanks said,” I repeat, staring down Jake and my own nerves. “So we do it.” Jake, the rest of the huddle, and my nerves go silent. “Break!”
We jog out to our places. I bend my knees, stuff my hands way too close to Topps’s junk, and call out again, all too aware of Jake’s annoyed eyes pinned to my helmet from his spot deep in the backfield.
“ORANGE NINE. ORANGE NINE. HUT-HUT.”
The snap comes and I’ve got the ball in my hands. I race back and look out for Tate, number eighty-two.
On the play chart, he’s supposed to zoom in a right-to-left cross about five yards from the pocket. I hold my breath and look for a body in orange moving in that general direction. Instead, I see all too clearly a body on each side of me, rushing toward the pocket—linebackers on the move. And, unlike in practice, if they get to me, these two dudes are going to drill me into the turf.
No running wide at the last second. No stopping short. No mercy.
Automatically, my feet start moving and I shoot wide left, dodging the linebacker there, while trying to lose the guy on the right side. But the dude keeps coming. Faster than Tate is getting to his spot. And because I’m running the same direction he is, the whole play is falling apart.
And I’m being tailed by a rhino.
Christ.
In another step, I get my arm back and aim the ball straight at Tate. We make eye contact as I release the ball. Which is about two-tenths of a second before I’m steamrolled to the ground by the aforementioned rhino.
As I’m falling, I glimpse the ball sailing right through Tate’s hands and into the mitts of some guy in Wyandotte Rural powder blue.
Shit.
The guy bobbles the ball up, and my helmet hits the turf before I can see if he catches it.
Double shit.
I stay still, hoping to God I didn’t just notch an interception. I mean, that’s what it looked like. And if that’s what it was, I’m never playing again. Ever. It’s a good thing Grey’s supposed to be cleared for the next game because Coach Lee is gonna can the experiment that was Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback.
Finally, the rhino rolls off me and I stand up.
The defense hasn’t come on the field yet and the whole Northland offensive line still lingers in generally the same position as before, thirteen yards out from the end zone.
Okay. I take a deep breath.
So I wasn’t intercepted. I was lucky as hell. The dude must have dropped it.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the down marker flips from second to third. Still alive. And somehow, this is all I need to know, the embarrassment and pain of the hit rolling off with the realization that we have a second chance. Football may be brutal, but the downs structure is actually forgiving in a way that softball really isn’t.
Shanks mouths my marching orders—ORANGE NINE. I blink at him. And then run to the huddle.
I have to work to find my voice after that hit, but the words still come out firm and clear. “Orange Nine.”
“Not White Nine?” That’s from my freaking target, Tate, asking if it should be a running play.
“Coach said orange. We’re doing it again.”
“That’s stupid.” Tate again.
“That’s the order.” My eyes meet his. “Catch it this time.”
Tate’s mouth falls open.
Jake stays silent, which is half-amazing, considering I know he’s itching to take a running leap over both lines.
But I don’t care what either of them thinks, goddammit. I want to score.
“Break!”
One more chance to make the play. One more chance before giving it up to special teams for a field goal. One more chance to keep going.
I cozy up to Topps and yell out the play, loud and clear, daring Wyandotte Rural to wrap their heads around the fact that, yes, we’re doing the very same play. Again.
Bring it.
“HUT-HUT!”
I shoot back in the pocket and scan the line for Tate. He’s gotten free of his defender and is running the play at a perfect clip.
I line up for my shot as the linebacker to my left—the rhino’s companion—comes charging my way. I dodge the other way, toward the blank space where the rhino would be if our line hadn’t tripped him up. Line up my shot again. Throw.
Tate jumps up and to his right, hands out. The throw’s slightly off, the ball grazing his fingertips and popping up for a split second. I hold my breath, but then both his hands wrap around the ball—right as I’m flattened by the Wyandotte Rural linebacker.
We go down in a rush, my helmet hitting the turf in such a way that it blinds me from the action. I lie still—breath gone but otherwise fine—waiting for the guy to get up, unable to see what’s happening. But I hear something happening.
Cheering.
Lots of it.
When I get to my feet, my breath stops just as surely as it did when Kelly clocked me with her fastball at state.
There’s Zach Tate’s number eighty-two.
Far, far away from me.
In the end zone.
He’s got the ball over his head, lets out a holler, and then spikes the crap out of some turf.
A touchdown.
My head whips around to the scoreboard to see that, yes, they’ve already added six points. I scored. Tate scored. We scored.
I know what scoring feels like—I’ve been sliding into home base for as long as I can remember—but this is just… I don’t have words for what this is.
“O-ROD! TOUCHDOOOOOOOOOOWN!” Topps screams—whirling around as quickly as 250 pounds of awesome can whirl—and picks me up.