With just seconds left on the clock, it was clear that Temple Sterling’s only option for a win was to go for the field goal. It was long, but Foster had kicked from farther before. Coach slapped him in, and with a momentary glance back in Ezra’s direction, he ran onto the field.
Play resumed. The line took off and collided with Lake Falls’. They snapped the ball, and the line took off and collided with Lake Falls’. Foster strode forward, and connected. The kick looked good, arcing end over end on a straight path toward the goalposts.
But it fell short.
And the clock had run down. The team went over to shake hands. All but Ezra, who stood with his back to the field.
I carried Foster’s bag for him as we left the field. He trotted alongside me as usual, but there was no running commentary of “Ezra caught that pass, did you see that pass, did you see his touchdown?” Foster was quiet.
Until we reached the car, at least, when he looked at me and said, “Sam was just like any one of us. Like Jordan or Marcus or Reggie, and then that would be us out there.”
I nodded and the “yeah” stuck in my throat.
We were parked next to Ezra’s truck. I didn’t realize he was behind us until I heard his bag hit the flat bed.
“Good game,” Foster said.
“We lost.”
Foster shrugged. “They beat us.”
Ezra snorted.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Yeah. He missed that kick on purpose.” Ezra’s eyes were fiery. “We would’ve won the game, but you fucked up on purpose.”
“I didn’t,” Foster said.
“You did. Don’t bullshit me. You did.”
Foster just stood, staring at Ezra like he was a stranger.
“Foster, get in the car,” I said after a moment, trying to keep my voice calm. “Go on.”
I dumped his bag in the backseat and stood until Foster had closed himself in the front. Then I pulled Ezra around the other side of his truck, out of Foster’s sight. The last few stragglers were trailing from the stadium, but all in all, the parking lot was pretty quiet.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“He lost the game.”
“Yeah. He made a bad kick. It happens. Not everyone’s a fucking All-American, Ezra.”
“This has nothing to do with me being All-American!” It was an explosion. An M-80 lighting up the night sky. “He could’ve made that kick; he’s done it a hundred times!”
“Maybe he was nervous.”
“He doesn’t get nervous!”
“Well, maybe it was for the best, right?”
“For the best? When is losing for the best?”
“When the other team needs a win! Their captain died, Ezra, and they had to go out there and play their first game without him.”
“Oh, so we should just let them win. That’ll make them feel better. We’re clearly the stronger team, but since Sam got drunk and ran his car into a tree, we’ll give them this one. Is that what you mean?”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Nobody deserves to win because something shitty happened to them. You deserve to win because you’re better than the other team, and we’re better than them, we could’ve beat them straight out, I could’ve beat them straight out!”
“I’m not saying we should’ve handed them the game,” I said, struggling to maintain civility like the best of Jane’s heroines would.
“Well, we did. Foster did, with that kick.”
“Don’t say a fucking word about Foster.” I couldn’t keep it back any longer. “He didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one acting like an idiot out there! All along, you say it’s not about winning, it’s not about stats, but the minute you get benched you fucking lose it. And you’re all about humility, and modesty, and yet you’re so conceited you think you can save the game single-handed. But that’s not true, and they lost, and you lost, and you’re gonna have to deal with it and leave Foster the fuck alone, because he’s never done anything to deserve being treated badly by anyone, especially you.”
Ezra didn’t reply. He just stood there for a moment, and then he got in his truck without even a glance in my direction. The door slammed, the engine turned, and he was gone.
27