A lump is in my throat and I know he can hear it when I ask, “You’re sure?”
His hands come to my face, thumbs cradling my cheeks as if they’re made of glass. “I promise. No more headaches.”
My lips drop open, but before I can insist he tell me again, he’s turned the tables on me. “And your knee? When were you going to tell me about that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, though he’s no dummy to the brace or my diagnosis. “I know what a real injury feels like. It’s not a big deal.”
His little half smile kicks up and his gray eyes flash in the dying light. “So you weren’t going to tell me.”
“No,” I admit. “But you would’ve found out Saturday night, anyway.” I lean in to him, our lips close enough I can feel his breath. Our pads click together, numbers sixteen and thirteen becoming one. “My homecoming dress does have a pretty good slit in it.” I can’t afford a new dress, so I’m wearing Addie’s from last year, and, yeah, it’s epic.
“Oh, it does, does it?” His face breaks into a real smile, everything about him softening. “I can’t wait.”
And then he kisses me.
40
AT THE END OF THE WEEK, THE STADIUM IS PACKED—brimming with Northland orange, Styrofoam cups of hot cocoa, and vats of popcorn, M&Ms spilling to the bleachers in tragic numbers. A contingent wrapped in shimmering Jewell Academy gold with slick black accents has no problem equally filling the other side of the stadium; a win is that much more satisfying on a competitor’s homecoming night. On our side, Dad, Mom, Ryan, Danielle, Heather, and Addie are scrunched into the northeast corner. This time, they are ALL wearing orange, even Addie and Danielle.
Down on the field, the electricity of it all, sparking from the stadium bodies as much as from the Friday night lights, crackles across the loop of exposed skin at my wrists, the scoop of my neck, my face. The current drills through the fabric, pads and bones and straight to my heart.
And my heart can barely take it.
I’m standing next to Grey, fighting the urge not to tie him to the fence lining the infield and track—far from where he can get hurt.
He’s his own person. He’s making his own decision.
My dad trusted me to do the same, and I can’t ask Grey to do differently.
I respect Grey’s choice—but…
But it still makes the walls of my heart deflate.
The team stands together along the sideline, all facing Coach Lee, who’s hopped onto one of the aluminum benches, eyes glittering under the lights. I’m in the very center of the circle, crowded in next to Grey, our shoulders kissing. I make a grab for his hand, pinkie and ring fingers hauling his hand into mine.
“Hello, Tigers.”
“Hello, Coach,” the team yells back, enthusiastic as ever.
“We’re playing the defending state champs—that’s worth as much weight as any words of encouragement I could spit out at you. So, I’ll leave it at this.” There’s a pause the size of Topps’s truck. “This is a damn good football team, and whatever happens tonight won’t change that.”
Coach Lee uses words in a more meaningful way than almost anyone I’ve ever met. And yet the way he crafted that sentence is almost like he’s giving us an out. A preemptive strike.
Almost like he expects us to lose.
The circle is silent, Coach’s words coiling inside each of the jerseyed bodies rather than evaporating into the cool night air.
Grey’s game face tightens—all his warm, happy cat energy evaporated. Still, he squeezes my hand before reaching up to put on his helmet. Jake appears at his side—my past and my present so close, the edges of my shadow blur into theirs, a trick of the blazing overheads, making us one.
We stand that way, watching the defense take the field after Jewell wins the coin toss and decides to receive the kickoff. One play later and they’ve scored, their kicker coming out to make it 7–0.
Thirty seconds off the clock and we’re down.
With that, Jake taps out a fist bump and Grey checks my shoulder, breaking his game face just long enough to toss me a half smile.
And then they’re gone.
At the half, we’re tied; 21–all.
We squeeze into the locker room, and the bodies give just enough that I can huddle in next to Grey. Grass stains and flecks of sod ruin the perfect white of his pants, his orange jersey smeared along the backside. Sweat clings to the angles of his jawline and cheekbones. He’s done a stellar job, already past the hundred-yard mark passing on the day, spry in the pocket, avoiding the sack. He’s been knocked down once or twice, sure, but it’s been nothing terrible, thank God. He and Jake have worked perfectly in tandem to keep up with Jewell, like the pros they are. Like the college players they want to be.
Both of their faces are hard with hope. Eyes set on Coach Lee. Waiting for some confirmation that he was wrong before kickoff. That we don’t need an out. That we can get the win.
“Tigers,” Coach starts, “you’re fighting. Fighting hard. And it shows. But—”
I swallow, stomach dropping though I haven’t taken a snap.
“But running stride for stride won’t win us this game. Winning means we can’t just match Jewell, we must best Jewell.”
Coach glances at Nick and the other linebackers. “Trample Jewell.”
At Jake and the receivers flanking him. “Outsprint Jewell.”
At Grey, and by extension, me. “Sail above Jewell.”
He lets that sink in, challenge given and clear.
We do have a chance.
But only if we work for it.
We’re ushered back out of the locker room to announcements from the stands about tomorrow night’s dance, and I’m glad I’m not expected to play this half because all of a sudden, visions of Grey in a suit have me just a tad distracted.
We hit the sidelines to warm back up, Grey drilling it to both Brady and myself at different distances for three minutes tops before Shanks snags him and Jake to talk specific scenarios. We’re starting the half receiving the kickoff, and against Jewell Academy, that means score first or be crushed.
“O-Rod! Brady!” Shanks’s big arm motions us to come over.
Brady’s final pass lands in my outstretched fingertips and we jog over, Grey shifting to make room. The circle also includes both tight ends and the secondary, plus Topps for good measure.
“Okay, team, the ground game is still our best bet, but they were plugging the holes at the end of the half—gotta start adding in the pass.” We all nod and Shanks begins circling certain plays with a dry-erase marker on the laminated cheat sheet. “Worthington, let’s start with your best Joe Montana impression and go from there.”
Translated, that means short passes that lead to big runs—the hallmark of Montana’s 49ers days. It’s basically what we do on a normal basis, but Shanks has eliminated passes that go deeper than ten yards. Which is fine with me—the less amount of time Grey has the ball in his hands, the better, because he’s less likely to be drilled.
The drums start and a line of golden uniforms stretches the field. Our receivers, Gonzalez and Chow, are deep, awaiting the ball, bouncing on their toes, speed sparking at their cleats.