I have to win. I can’t be the gamble who led the offense in the two losses in Coach Lee’s final year. I can’t.
“Rodinsky, you listening?” I nod and his voice drops twenty decibels, zeroing in on me. “Look, I know I give you a hard time. You’re not the second coming of Peyton Manning, but you’re not half-bad. Know that.” Sheesh, thanks. “Keep those feet moving and follow your instincts. You know better than those boys out there how to win.”
I don’t know that I do, especially compared to “those boys” on the Jewell side, but something about Coach Lee’s voice makes me believe. Maybe because he’s never said anything so damn nice to me in regard to my football playing.
Lee pats me on the helmet and peels off, visor pointed toward the ensuing kickoff.
Shanks squats down in his place—his dark face looming level with my eyes.
“No matter what happens here, you Orange Nine to Tate. Next White Nine to Jake. We’ll call it from there.”
The drums begin, another kickoff imminent. My mind swims with images of that final-second loss to Central. I shake my head, ponytail a ratty ball of tangles. Those memories have no place in the now.
Champions don’t dwell on past mistakes.
Champions don’t dwell on things they can’t control.
Champions only look forward, they never look back.
I could go on all day with the pearls of wisdom Danielle stole from some book and then sprinkled throughout my sweat-stained childhood.
“Liv!”
My head whirls around to the sound of Grey’s voice. He’s walking as fast as possible, the medic behind him, yelling after him not to break into a run.
But I can run to him. I get to my feet and sprint his way before stopping on a dime—not wanting to crash into him and do more damage.
“You came back,” I say, thrilled.
“As soon as they’d let me.” Grey wraps an arm around my shoulders as the crowd thunders in the background, cheering on our guys as they sprint the kickoff back down the field.
The whistle blows. The ball down at our forty. A sixty-yard march in less than sixty seconds, coming up.
“You’ve got this, Liv,” he says, squeezing me into his body.
I’m programmed to nod, so I do. He doesn’t buy it.
“No, look at me.” My eyes fly up from the middle distance to his. “You’ve got this. You will find a way to win. You will make it happen. Because you’re Liv Rodinsky and you’re absolute magic.”
I just kiss him. Quick and hard.
In goes the mouth guard. On goes the helmet.
I start yelling the second I’m on the field, not wanting to waste any time with a huddle.
“ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE!”
I curl in behind Topps. “HUT-HUT!”
I launch back five steps, spot Tate slightly off route and readjust, aiming to split his numbers. Some asshole in gold is tailing him, but I know Zach Tate’s got this and I release the ball as planned.
Tate catches it and tucks the ball into his elbow as his cleats make contact with the turf, legs churning as he dodges left. The Jewell player goes down in his dust. A linebacker rushes over to help, tripping up Tate at the knees. But he’s made it to the Jewell forty-one—a nineteen-yard gain and a first down.
We step up to the line, the seconds ticking toward a half minute remaining. No huddle, just my voice and our collective muscle memory.
“WHITE NINE! WHITE NINE! HUT-HUT!”
The handoff to Jake isn’t the smoothest, both of us eager to do our jobs, the ball bobbling in his fingertips. But he’s Jake effing Rogers and he’s done this a million times. The ball is safe and sound in a fraction of a second and then number thirty-two is on the move.
Jake loops out along the sideline and, as the second defender closes in, he smartly steps out of bounds—stopping the clock.
Nineteen seconds and twenty-five yards remain.
I look to Shanks, not missing our kicker warming up on the sidelines, ready for the winning field goal. I half expect the coaches to call in special teams right now, but they decide to give it one more try for a better position.
White Fifteen. It’s a play he hasn’t called all night. Jewell definitely won’t know what hit them.
I glance at Jake and he nods. Ready.
Again, we rush the line, the Jewell defense clearly unsettled with our lack of huddle. Gotta use that to our advantage one last time.
“WHITE FIFTEEN! WHITE FIFTEEN! HUT-HUT!”
I take the ball and shoot back, Topps holding the pocket.
But Jake’s run into trouble—number fifty-five glued to his back.
Dammit.
Still, in front of me, there’s an opening. A huge opening.
For a split second, I consider dumping the ball to the sideline like I should to stop the clock again, but I know what’s best, what will end the game at this very moment. Coach is right, my instincts can win this game—even if they don’t involve my throwing arm.
Tucking the ball, I plow through the parted bodies and into the open. I’m certain Grey’s voice rises above the crowd, the clash of bodies, my breath thundering in my ears.
“Run, O-Rod!”
My feet automatically coast left when I realize there’s a body at my side, but it’s Topps, who somehow shook his assignment and sprinted fast enough to block for me.
The end zone looms ahead, the goalposts the whole of my vision. I can’t feel my knee—I can’t feel anything except the tight thrill of tunnel vision, single-mindedness the whole of my being.
Another body zooms into my periphery—another flash of orange.
“Liv! Go!”
Jake.
Now I’ve got guys on either side, protecting me. And Grey in my head, telling me I’ve got this.
Five yards.
Four yards.
Three.
Two.
One.
My cleats hit the end zone with three seconds to spare. Arms raised, I spike the ball and turn to the crowd, inhaling the thunder and love.
“Ooooooo-ROOOOOODDDDD!” Topps hooks me under the shoulders and hoists me into the air, Jake in step with us. I spot Danielle in the crowd first, her hands in the air, screaming—Dad, Mom, Ryan, Heather, and Addie high-fiving. Jake’s wide grin is the next thing I see as Topps returns me safely to the turf, and we slap hands.
Coach Lee lets the time run out, extra point unneeded. The refs don’t even seem pissed when the entire Tigers bench floods the field, the end zone and night ours. Grey shoves his way through the bodies to me, picking me up and twirling me like I’m freaking Ginger Rogers, not a sweaty girl in a jersey and pads. The moment my cleats hit solid ground, he pulls me into a deep kiss.
And it might just be my imagination, but the crowd seems to get even louder.
When we part, the band starts into the Northland fight song, our whole side swaying as one, homecoming spirit times a million.
Jewell players hang their golden heads, the assistants already packing up because even champions—especially defending state champions—never dwell on a loss.
Even when they get their asses handed to them by a girl.
Epilogue
IT’S THE BOTTOM OF THE SEVENTH. THE BASES LOADED. Two out.
The crowd is still—orange and purple cleaved together in silence, all eyes pinned to the long-legged strut of the next batter.