I PACE the hall in front of the locker room a hundred times before I head in.
Yeah, I want to hit something. Tyler, in particular, and that scares me a little, but I’m smarter than that. I can go on that field and wipe his ass with it without ever touching a hair on his head. I can take it from him. Just like Mr. Neely said. From now on, I’m calling the shots.
Everyone’s already on the field so I take my time putting on my gear. Can’t believe they left my locker untouched, all my gear inside, like they knew I’d be back.
It feels strange lacing up again. Not strange in that it doesn’t feel right. It feels too right. Like this last year never even happened. As much as I want to forget, I can’t afford to do that. As much as it hurts, I’ve got to hang on to the past. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded right now.
Heading out to the field, I half-expect to see my dad standing on the sidelines. His weathered face, cap pulled down tight over his wraparound shades. Most people had a hard time reading him. Not me. I knew when he was proud—chin raised, the way he clenched his jaw trying to hold back any kind of emotion. But when he had his chin lowered, teeth gritted, he was pissed, at me or the ball or the wind or Coach—but he never interfered. He wasn’t one of those yellers, either, one of those dads who stood on the sidelines telling you what to do. He kept quiet, almost like he was praying. I guess this was his true church … mine, too. Hell, probably this entire town’s.
Stepping out of the locker room, into the sun, feels euphoric. Like everything’s moving in slow motion. The players stop the drills. The cheerleaders drop their pom-poms to their sides. I swear I can feel the turf cradle every step like it’s been waiting for me all this time.
Ali smiles at me—the way I remember her—the way she remembers me.
I pull my helmet on for the first time in over a year, and I feel something rush through me, a sense of calm and assuredness, like nothing can touch me.
Ben beams the football at me and I don’t even have to think about it. I reach out and snatch it out of the air. The feel of the ball thumping hard against my chest makes me feel … alive.
Coach’s whistle pulls me back. “I was hoping I’d get a shot at you,” he says, as he slams his hand down on my shoulder pad. He doesn’t look much like a coach. Too clean-cut, like he’s just been released from a toy package. Texas.
“Neely?” Coach yells at Tyler. “Go run some drills with Garrison.”
“What?” Tyler yanks off his chin strap. “But I’m—”
“Don’t argue with me.” Coach shakes his head. “Your daddy promised me when the time came this wasn’t going to be a problem.”
Tyler looks toward his dad on the sidelines. Ian gives a stern thumbs-up.
“This is bullshit,” Tyler says, as he stalks off the field.
I know it’s immature, but I glance over to make sure Ali’s watching. She is.
“Tate, you’re QB one. Captain,” Coach barks.
“But I haven’t touched a ball in over a year.”
“You just did, son.” He shoves the ball back into my hands. “It’s like riding a bike. I’ve seen your tapes. You were born to do this. I’ll let you call it.”
I stand there, stunned. I was ready to fight for it, to prove myself. It feels wrong to get it this way, but I can’t get hung up on principle anymore. You can’t win in this town if you play by the rules. If I want to figure out what’s going on, stop this, I’m going to have to get my hands dirty. And nothing will put me in this town’s good graces faster than bringing home a W. Always been that way, always will be.
As I take center field, I notice Sheriff and Miss Granger have come to watch. Seems like half the school’s gathered around the fences now.
The guys huddle around me; I make eye contact with every single one of them, feeling my adrenaline spike, everything coming into sharp focus.
“I think this calls for a Miracle Whip special,” Ben says with a wide grin before he puts in his mouth guard.
Ben and I have been running that play since Pee Wee. He might be Big Ben now, but he can run, too.
I nod. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”
“Yeah!” the team hollers in response.
“On four.” I call the play and everything goes from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. Along with the beat of my heart thrumming in my ears, I hear cleats digging into turf, the shifting of pads, helmets crashing, grunts of determination as guys scramble for ground.
I dodge a tackle and pump my arm, searching for Ben. He’s sailing down the field, hugging the right line. Just like we used to do it.
I let go of the ball. And I swear I can hear it sing as it leaves my hand, reverberate all the way up my arm, through my whole body.