“Tate! Get your head out of your pants and into the game!” The team parted with biblical reverence as Tate’s dad strode toward him.
“My head’s totally in the game, Coach!” Tate assured his dad as his teammates snapped to attention.
“Good, because you have your work cut out for you tonight. Do I need to remind you that St. Joe’s a four-A school and we’re a two-A school?”
“No, Coach!” Tate shouted.
“No, Coach!” the team echoed.
“And do I need to remind you that the weather out there is looking crappy, which means anything can happen when the field turns into a swamp?”
“No, Coach!” the team shouted with Tate.
“Hey, Coach, no worries about the weather,” Kyle said. “The darker it gets, the better Nighthawk sees!”
Tate’s dad smacked the back of Kyle’s head. “Boy, when the entire team can see in the dark like Tate, then the crappy weather’s a plus. Can you see like a hawk in the dark?”
“No, sir!” Kyle yelled.
“Like I’ve told you boys since you were in grade school—nothing, not even great night vision, can replace hard work and focus. Now, huddle up and take a knee.”
With the rest of the team, Tate took a knee in the circle of teammates around his dad while everyone bowed their heads and linked hands.
“Keep us safe out there—strong out there—sure out there. Keep us Panthers out there!”
“Go Panthers!” the team chorused.
“Oh, yeah. Almost forgot,” his dad said, looking around the team conspiratorially. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Coach!” the entire team, except Tate, yelled.
“Go!”
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Nighthawk! Happy birthday to you!” They all sang—badly, but enthusiastically.
“Sweet eighteen and never been kissed!” Ryan quipped.
“Shit, sweet eighteen and never been missed!” Kyle said.
“Okay, okay, you’ve had your fun. Time to line it up. Captain and co-captain first.”
Tate and Kyle took their places at the front of the double column of Panthers. They moved in perfect time to their end zone, where they waited together for the band to start playing the fight song.
“Damn, your dad wasn’t kidding about the weather,” Kyle said, giving the green sky with its ominous dark clouds a nervous look. “Think they’ll call the game?”
“Hell, no!” Tate said. “Well, not unless the lightning starts. And I hope it doesn’t.” He breathed deeply, loving the scent of rain and the sudden cooling of the air that signaled a storm. He was obsessed with storms! He always had been. It was as if he could feel the power building inside him in time with the distant thunder and the rolling clouds.
“Be careful out there tonight, Son.” His dad was beside him, putting a firm, familiar hand on his shoulder. “I know you like your storms, but if that sky opens and starts pouring, watch yourself. That ground’ll get slick as pig shit. Break something, and you’ll be sidelined. It’s early in the season, but you can’t mess yourself up or you’ll risk losing that Mizzou scholarship.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine—like always.”
His dad patted his shoulder and smiled affectionately at him. “Right. I’ll leave the worrying to your mother. Don’t forget to wave to her.”
“She’s out there? But she hates storms.”
“Of course she’s out there—right on the fifty-yard line as usual. Your mom hates storms, but she loves her little Nighthawk more.”
“I’m six-one, and eighteen years old as of today. Why does she have to add the little part? Jeesh, Dad, only Mom could make that nickname lame.” Well, Mom and that green-eyed strawberry, he thought.
The first snare drum beats of the fight song drowned out his dad’s laughter, and had the home side of the small stadium coming to their feet as Tate sprinted through the tunnel of cheerleaders and pompoms, leading his team onto the field. As they circled to begin their warm-up, Tate waved to his mom. She was easy to find. Her thick blond hair, which Tate had always thought made her look like a Disney princess, was a golden beacon under the bright lights. She waved and blew him a kiss while the rising wind lifted her tresses like a restless spirit.
Tate was calling cadence for their warm-up burpees when a blaze of red in the bleachers above his mom snagged his attention. Red hair, broken free from whatever had held it on top of her head, spilled around her. Damn, that girl had a lot of hair. Tate blinked—and then blinked again. It was her! The strawberry! She was sitting next to a big black woman who was studying him like he was a two-headed science fair experiment. But the strawberry? She was busy trying to tame all that wind-crazed ginger hair while she looked everywhere but the field.
Burpees done, Tate called for the team to change positions and begin jumping jacks. He snuck another look at the girl. Yep, she was still staring everywhere but at him. No, wait. She’s not staring everywhere. She’s staring up at the sky.
The ref’s whistle sounded the end of warm-ups, calling team captains to the center of the field for the coin toss. He jogged to meet the Spartan—shaking his hand and trying not to think about the fact that the kid’s lack of a neck and full beard made him look thirty instead of seventeen.
“Heads,” the Spartan called in a voice so deep and gravelly it sounded like he’d been smoking for decades.
“Tails! Panthers’ choice!” the referee announced, shouting to be heard above the wind.
“We’ll receive,” Tate told them. He jogged quickly off the field, huddling with the rest of the offense as his dad put his hand into the middle of their circle. He had to yell to be heard over the whining wind, but his strong voice rose to the challenge.