Which only makes the ensuing fight louder.
Shanks, Napolitano, Cleary, and Sanchez begin herding Tigers back to the sidelines, the Jewell Academy coaches slow to do the same. But a core group continues to snipe at each other despite the distance, the refs playing force field.
Left with me, Coach Lee doesn’t flinch at the noise, patiently watching the medic do his work, but my body aches to run, muscles tense and ready to hurry Grey back to the relative safety of the sidelines.
After forever and a day, the medic gives the official word—probable grade three concussion.
Out comes Napolitano with the cart. Grey’s parents arrive, too.
I want to cry, but I actually feel so much better knowing that he’s okay. That he’s getting medical help. That the truth is out there and it’s going to be okay.
Though, man, if Grey isn’t going to have to run a bazillion extra laps for this.
As he’s loaded onto the cart, Grey’s hand lands on my thigh as I try to climb on, too. To stop me. To get my attention. To bring me out of girlfriend mode and into player mode.
“Better grab Brady and get warm. The rest of this game is yours.”
I’m in command.
I lean down and give him one more kiss—quick and gentle.
And then the cart, with Grey’s parents and the medic in the back, drives away. The crowd erupts as Grey raises a hand and flashes that smile of his toward the stands.
41
JEWELL SCORES QUICKLY ON THE NEXT DRIVE, AGAIN proving why they’re the defending state champs. After the extra point flies in, we’re again tied up, 28–all. The ensuing kick drives us to the enemy forty-nine; it’s not great, but better than on the other side of midfield.
Time to go.
My heart thumps, a cold trickle of fear behind it. My knee is injured, yes, but I can do this. I can. I can do it and I can do it without making it worse.
I hope.
A raucous cheer goes up as I jog onto the turf with the offense, the whole stadium—not just my family, not just my friends—lighting up. The thunder and crackle of the undertone clear: The girl quarterback is on the field.
I let the sound stream through my bones. Let it infuse any possible extra strength to my muscles. It’s oh so powerful.
For extra measure, my eyes shoot to the stands. My parents, Danielle, Ryan, Heather, and Addie—all together in a row. Their presence gives me an extra spring in my step.
I can do this.
The huddle is silent, all eyes on me. There’s no dissent, no questioning glances at my knee, though it’s still in its neoprene sleeve—just a hungry look on each face. I know that look well. The one of feeling like you’re down even though you’re actually tied, even though it’s your night, all because you have to work so much harder than your opponent.
I know that look, but I also know we’ve got this.
“They’re going to expect me to throw—new quarterback, showing off.” I glance to Jake. “So we run.”
Jake’s face breaks into a wolf’s smile. “White Three?”
It’s the perfect play for turbo Jake. “Exactly.”
“Break!” My voice rings into the night and we face the golden line. Fifty-five, one of the linebackers who downed Grey, does all he can to force me to recognize the evil grin on his face.
Suck it, fifty-five. You aren’t taking me out.
“WHITE THREE! WHITE THREE! HUT-HUT!”
Topps snaps the ball and I shoot back, Jake snagging the ball before my arm goes up and back. I bomb through the motion as number thirty-two turns the line, breaking into the open. A defender finally wises up and is on him, Jake’s arm propped out in the Heisman pose—
A beefy arm slams into my sternum, the wind and thought knocked out of me as my body plunges to the turf.
The shriek of a whistle; the whizz of a flag in my periphery.
“Football isn’t for girls,” a rough voice informs me when I’m finally on the ground, face to the grass. Something, a hand, maybe, presses me deeper into the sod for good measure.
I roll over, golden jersey stalking away, his number stuttering out in triplicate across my vision.
Fifty-five. Fifty-five. Fifty-five.
He did get me.
Dammit.
But as I rise to my knees, I realize he’s been punished—for both the late hit and unnecessary roughness.
Meaning we gain another fifteen yards and a first down on the play.
Topps lends a hand and I take it, using the solid anchor of two hundred fifty pounds to stand. My knee doesn’t hitch, and for that, I’m thankful. I take a step, and though the bruise is still there, it’s unbothered, the tight sleeve adding support. I don’t even have to pretend not to limp.
“You okay, O-Rod?”
I give him my best smile. “We just made it to the twenty-five. I’m great.”
Topps doesn’t seem convinced, but isn’t stupid enough to harp on the fact that I’ve got a clod of turf lodged in the front of my helmet and a glorious green streak down the length of my number thirteen. I find my dad’s eyes in the stands yet again and he raises a fist.
I can do this.
The boys huddle back up and I confirm Shanks’s call from the sidelines.
“Orange Nine.” Tate’s eyes flash. Our favorite. “Break!”
I make sure number fifty-five gets a good look at the calm on my face. Just so he knows there’s no way in hell he’s affected me now, even if I’ll surely be aching tomorrow.
“ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE! HUT-HUT!”
The ball is gone a second later, Tate in the perfect position.
He slams into the defender but holds fast, and the Jewell player goes down, allowing him to break loose. Tate dodges to the sideline and tightropes it all the way down before being shoved out at the one.
A single yard at the end zone is the most difficult yard in football.
But I’ve got Jake.
We don’t even need a huddle.
“WHITE NINETEEN! WHITE NINETEEN! HUT-HUT!”
I twist my shoulders to expose the ball to Jake, who squeezes it into the three and two on his chest before vaulting over the line and somersaulting into the end zone.
He stands and spikes it, arms out wide as Tate greets him in a chest bump.
Tigers: back on top.
The minutes tick down and we’ve still traded scores.
But, incredibly, even that’s not good enough because we’re losing.
On its last possession, Jewell Academy went for two, rather than the extra point. With precision and what I would say was a huge-ass amount of swagger, the golden guild coolly went up one.
So, Jewell’s up 43–42 with exactly a minute left on the clock.
Goddammit.
Every bone in my body is weary as I cough down one last swig of Gatorade. My knee’s been much better than I hoped, but it aches more than the rest of me if I’m being honest. Lee and Shanks loom above my spot on the bleachers. I’m missing Grey, who’s still somewhere with the medic, and I’m wishing he were here, shoulder-knocking the jitters out of me.
“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” Lee says, almost as a mantra. I force myself to look Coach in the eye, but all I can see is him addressing us during my first practice, sharing his hopes and dreams for us—for his final season.
Lose this one and getting to state becomes nearly impossible. Not totally, but reality takes a detour into the Candy Land of statistics and scenarios.