As they’re stalking away, my stomach bottoms out. There goes my safety net. Both my top backup and the team’s leading scorer—gone.
Tomorrow, it’s all on me.
And it feels like my fault. I want to grab Grey’s hand. To remind him that he’s an amazing player. That it’s okay to have another off week. Second-string isn’t who he is. I want to tell him that Jake knows that, too, which was why he was so hard on him.
But I don’t. Because I’m not convinced it won’t make things worse.
And so I watch them trudge away—Coach Lee, Grey, Jake, and the rest. Fifty-plus people who are all counting on me tomorrow night.
I’ll need to run the plays. I’ll need to make the plays. And I can’t get hurt. I can’t leave the team with Brady in the pocket and no Jake behind him.
Or we’ll lose.
It’s only for a game. But it might as well be an eternity.
25
“OH MAN, WHAT A FACE,” GREY SAYS. “CENTRAL’S D IS going to shit bricks.”
Grey peels off a huddle of giant bodies and does a drive-by knock of my shoulder as I stalk toward the bus, game-day glare on. Outside, I know I look hard as nails, but inside I’m a puddle of nerves. Not something I’m used to being, that’s for sure.
Grey places a hand on my shoulder, right on the pad, as we find a seat. He’s been like this all day—not a hint of frustration in my presence or a word about what happened last night. Jake’s got apparent amnesia, too, though a deep purple shiner the shape of Grey’s fist is imprinted on his right cheek.
I cock a brow and whisper, his presence immediately dulling some of my nerves. “I thought you liked my face, Worthington.”
Too close, he stares at my lips. “Don’t tempt me, Rodinsky.”
“No kissing in football. Yeah, yeah.”
“Let’s continue this discussion after a Tiger victory, shall we?”
I smirk at him. “Oh, I don’t need a discussion to win this argument.”
“No, you don’t.”
An hour later, we’ve been through warm-ups, the national anthem, and Central’s pep song. Our junior captain—Nick—took the coin toss and happened to win it, telling the refs we’d receive. Which means I’m out on the field in less than a minute.
I’m more ready than I was before boarding the bus. But I’m still nervous as shit.
Alone with five thousand high school football fans, Grey and I stand side by side in the Central stadium, his energy seeping into mine at a much faster rate than the Gatorade I just chugged. Watching Jaden Gonzalez do the offense a solid and run Central’s kickoff back past midfield and down to the thirty.
My eyes shoot up to the crowd, and within a few seconds, I find my family and Addie, up in the topmost corner of the visitor’s section. They’re easy to spot—Addie and Danielle, straight from school in Windsor Prep purple, Heather in a criminally cute sundress, Mom and Ryan in Northland orange, and Dad looking ever the detective in a button-up, straight from work. He might not like me playing football, but he’ll support me anytime.
Ball down, chains moving, the turf glittering under the lights, the weight of Grey’s hand appears on my shoulder. “Good luck,” he says.
I run out onto the field.
Turns out Central isn’t as terrible as Jake insisted they were a day ago.
Their defense isn’t the greatest, but their offense is right in line with ours. Our defense is okay, and our linebackers are excellent—praise Nick Cleary—but the Central quarterback is a senior who’s seen it all on some really bad teams. He knows how to move, get rid of the ball, and fight.
Me, well… every inch of my being is exhausted from nearly four full quarters of football and at least twenty full-speed hits. And that is compounded by the fact that despite it’s completely clear I’ve done my duty—282 yards and five touchdowns—we’re tied.
Tied.
With a minute left. And Central has the freaking ball in the red zone.
They’re killing time—the team’s kicker warming up with a Rockettes special on the sideline. One field goal and it’ll be on us with seconds remaining to tie or win on a touchdown.
I’m on the bench, muscles tightening, waiting for my turn, because even with my exhaustion, my heart bursts to be out on that field, to go haul that win in. Next to me, Grey’s so dialed in he can’t crawl out, all the usual comfort sloughed from his skin. Where I am so tense I’m frozen in place, his legs bounce like Ryan’s after one of Heather’s colossal Sunday evening desserts. His mouth won’t stop moving either—the coaching genes in his DNA whirring his brain up to eighty-eight miles per hour.
“Better go short and safe and hope Tate breaks free for a run than go long and miss an opportunity.” His shoulder pad clicks against mine. “Not that you can’t go long. It’s the Central secondary I don’t trust—scrappy and experienced. They’ve been holding up our receivers all game.”
“Mmm-hmmm” is all I have energy to say.
The ball is up, up, up and then… not.
Batted down by a fingertip and rolling downfield.
The clock is still running and the second it’s called as a Tiger ball—Thank you, Sanchez—Coach Lee is screaming for the offense to get out there. Shanks’s call: Orange Sixteen.
I sprint to where the ball was downed—the twenty-two—make eye contact with Tate, and scream out the details. We haven’t missed this one all game.
“ORANGE SIXTEEN. ORANGE SIXTEEN. HUT-HUT!”
Ball ready, I shoot back, eyes hunting for Tate’s number eighty-two.
After a second, I spy it, but not anywhere close to on route—sandwiched between two red jerseys just beyond the line.
Shit. We haven’t missed it all game, but that doesn’t mean Central hasn’t figured out a solution.
I dodge right, searching for any open receiver—pesky defense indeed. The closest thing to open is number eighty-four—Timmy Chow—out wide right, beating two defenders in his route downfield.
Holding my breath, I aim, hoping Chow actually thinks about looking for an incoming ball, even though he knows the play isn’t designed for him.
The ball rockets out and over the fray. Chow’s helmet pops up and back, his arms reach, and he leaps.
But so do the defenders—earning extra time in the half step Chow slowed to turn.
The ball crashes into Chow’s chest, right between the eight and four. But the ball squirts out, skipping up end over end.
Catch it, catch it, catch it.
The ball hangs for an eternity as three pairs of gloved hands scrape fingertips against the leather. One leaping defender gets to it first, batting the point.
I release a breath as the ball makes contact with the turf, interception avoided.
Ten seconds left.
The coaches are all yelling at once for everyone to return to the line—the Northland players moving two times the speed of Central. In the mess, Shanks calls for White Twenty-Two.
Seven. Six. Five. Four.
Everyone settles into place.
“WHITE TWENTY-TWO. WHITE TWENTY-TWO. HUT-HUT!”
Three. Two. One.
I get the snap off with a second to spare and rocket back, eyes out for Trevor Smith’s number eighty. He comes in on cue, trailed by a defender. Arm back, I fire, nailing him right in the hands. Smith takes the guy behind him on a spin move and points his body downfield, end zone in his sights… until two bodies come flying in. He dodges one but is stonewalled so hard by the other that the ball slips out.