"Boys . . . no, I guess the time has come to stop calling most of you boys," Coach Jackson says as we gather around in the locker room. My blue and silver jersey is tied back, and on my left hand is the lineman's glove that I wear. It's a strange thing for a QB to wear, but with a tacky palm and a lightly padded back, it's great for me when I play linebacker as well. My other glove is tucked in my belt, in case we go on defense first. I can't wear the glove when I'm on offense. It screws up my grip on the ball for throwing.
"The time has come for you upperclassmen, you seniors and juniors, to step up and be men," Coach continues, and I glance over at Cory, who gives me a nod. He's painted up like he does for every home game, the eye black taken to ridiculous extremes until both of his eye sockets are completely black, with a single line drawing down his cheeks. He says that he's copying the look of the ancient Spartans, and I have no idea if he's correct or not, but I do know that when he pulls his helmet on, it’s pretty terrifying. "You know what to do. This is your season now, gentlemen. I can only send in plays or give guidance. It's up to you now to make a difference."
After we go out of the locker room, I look down in my helmet, a little smile on my face as I see the folded up square of paper that I've wedged in between the air pocket and the outer shell. Even though it’s folded up, I know what's on it.
Dear Troy.
I know this may be weird. After all, I'm planning on giving this to you in about twenty minutes when we have lunch together. But I wanted to say good luck tonight. Just know that I wish I were out on the field with you, instead of on the sidelines just cheering. Actually, I take that back. There's no way I could do what you do, but know that I'm going to be cheering loudest for you.
Whitney
"You ready, Troy?" Coach Jackson asks, coming by. "Like I said, son, the future's in your hands."
I grin and pull my helmet on. With my teammates, we line up behind the big paper banner that the cheerleaders painted up for us, and I see Whitney out of the corner of my eye, standing on one of the other girls’ shoulders, holding the paper tight for us, and she gives me a smile, even if it is a bit scared from being up in the air like that. I smile back and wink.
I hear the band that's lined up on the other side of the banner start up the fight song, and I turn. "All right, it's SHOWTIME!"
We charge through the banner, and I lead my team onto the field. We win the toss, and as I watch Watkins take the opening kickoff, everything drops away. It's a comfortable feeling, one I've felt before. The rest of the world can be fucked up. But this field, this space that's a hundred and twenty yards long and fifty-three yards wide, this is pure and right, and I know I own this spot.
"Split left, forty-four blast," I say in the huddle, looking around. "That's you, Gabe. You got this?"
"See you in the end zone," Gabe replies, ready. I look around and grin. This is going to be fun.
The game goes by in a blur, and it isn't until the next day that I read my final stats. Seven of thirteen passing for eighty-seven yards and one touchdown, which isn't really all that great, but with our offense, it works. Fifteen carries for a hundred and eight yards rushing, and another two touchdowns . . . much better. But I'm proudest of the seventeen tackles, including three sacks, a tipped pass, and a forced fumble as we blow out Blueridge 35-7, their only points coming in garbage time of the fourth quarter after Coach had put in the second stringers to get them some game time.
I shake hands with the other team, then turn, looking for something more important than the newspaper guy who I see is hunting for a quote for the local paper. Fuck it, let Coach give him his quote. I'll let my play do my talking. Instead, I'm looking for Whitney, and I see her, still looking fabulous in her uniform, even if she's nearly as sweaty as I am after two hours of bouncing around, doing dances, and yelling her head off in the heat of the last week of August. I'm out on the field too much to pay attention to the cheerleaders during the game, but a couple of times, when Coach would pull me out to get water or during special teams downs, I caught a glimpse, and once, she returned my look, sending little quivers down my back and to my stomach.
"Whitney!" I call, jogging over. She's picking up her gear, and I see that she's struggling with the two pom-poms, megaphone, and her bag all at the same time. I grab her bag before it can fall on the ground and sling it over my shoulder. "Hey. Here, let me carry a little bit."
"Thanks," Whitney says, smiling. We're both flushed from exertion, and to me, she looks so hot I can barely believe it. Whitney blushes with the way I'm looking at her, and she brushes her hair back over her ear. "You did great out there."
"Thanks," I say, and it's my turn to feel warm, which gets even warmer when I hear some of the girls laughing.
"Whoa, she tamed him quick," Andrea Bissonette, one of the other seniors and a girl I'd fooled around with for a hot minute when we were juniors, says. "Damn, Whitney, you must be giving him something special."
Whitney looks mortified, which pisses me off. "Unlike you, Andrea, Whitney doesn't need to offer up a blowjob on the first date in order to make a good impression."