“Get ’em, boys!” Owen whooped.
“What are you doing?” I pushed Owen’s arms down to his sides. “You’re one whoop away from starring in a beer commercial.”
A few minutes later, to the tune of “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” Knox kicked the football. It arced, end over end, landing a disappointing ten yards past the center to unified groans from the crowd.
The limp kick was an omen of things to come. It’d been a point of pride that I’d managed to live my entire life in football country without learning a single fact about the game, but by the end of the first quarter, I’d learned that a touchdown was worth six points plus a chance to kick a field goal for an additional one. And it didn’t take a girl genius to ascertain that we didn’t have any.
Adam barreled through the other team like they were dominoes. He was a force to be reckoned with, much like gale force winds and garlic breath, but halfway through the second quarter, we were still down by fourteen. Owen held his fingers to his lips and whistled.
When he caught me staring at him like his body had been taken over by aliens, he shrugged. “Must be the sweatshirt.”
Just after halftime, we earned a touchdown back. Adam bulldozed the defensive line, and Billy Ray was able to throw for a touchdown. Cassidy, Paisley, and the rest of the pom-pom brigade leaped into the air and twisted their legs into unnatural positions as though they were cheering for something other than our team’s ribs getting cracked by total strangers. It was barbaric. And okay, maybe a teensy bit thrilling.
Adam himself, though, was his own phenomenon. When we broke even, Owen yelled like a banshee. “Do you think it’s muscle memory?” I said, screaming over the crowd. “To explain, I don’t know.” I pointed down at the field. “All of that.”
“Who cares,” Owen called back and shoved the bag of Skittles into my hand. I stress-ate a handful.
The two teams held even for a whole quarter and a half, nobody budging. The trouble was that while Adam was the best man on the field by a long shot, the other team had at least five guys half as good as Adam, which made them twice as good as all the other Oilers players. He was outnumbered. I couldn’t watch. I had to watch. I was witnessing a losing battle. Custer’s last stand.
Two minutes left on the clock. I found myself literally biting my fingernails. Owen quirked an eyebrow. “What?” I glanced away. “It’s your darn sweatshirt. I think it might be contagious.” I made a show of shuffling away.
Oilers’ ball. The seconds ticked by with excruciating regularity. The ball was hiked. I bobbed on the balls of my feet. The whole stadium held its breath.
Until Billy Ray’s face ate Astroturf. Adam shook his helmet and punched his fists together. Second down.
This time, despite being outmanned four to one, Adam managed to block the onslaught long enough for Billy Ray to progress several feet. But it wasn’t enough. The clock no longer had a number in the minutes’ column. The seconds counted down lower and lower.
I dug my teeth into my fist. Third down.
The ball was hiked. Rather than block, Adam backpedaled toward Billy Ray. When he emerged around the other side, the ball was tucked underneath his arm. I could see Billy Ray screaming at him, face turning maroon as he waved at Adam to run. Run, Adam, run, I saw him shout.
I would deny this with my dying breath, but I screeched. Like girl-at-a-boy-band-concert screeched. Because Adam—my Adam—Adam, who had been dead and brought back to life by yours truly, was sprinting down the field. I was a science goddess. A genius. Fifty-yard line. Forty-yard line. Thirty.
A skinny kid with ninja-quick legs chased him from the side. When he got close, he leaped onto Adam, but Adam caught him in the neck with the side of his arm. His head whipped backward and he flipped onto the ground, where the red jersey rolled before lying in the grass, his knees curling up.
Twenty yards. The roar of the crowd was deafening. A thicker player, built like Einstein, had cut across the field and was now closing the gap between him and Adam. As Adam reached the ten-yard line, the player hooked his arms around Adam’s waist and twisted. Adam stumbled. Now the rest of the crowd had joined the chant, “Run, Adam, run!” He dug his cleats into the ground. But he didn’t fall.
The other player’s legs splayed out from under him, and he was dragged across the field, clinging to Adam’s waist. Slow, but still standing, Adam inched toward the one-yard line with two entire teams in pursuit.
My eyes stayed glued to the field. Come on, Adam, come on. They were going to catch him. But as the numbers on the game clock slipped down to two seconds left, Adam lunged across the line, landing with a thud on his shoulder.