“Is this the part in the after-school special where I say, ‘But not as hard as being the only girl on a high school football team, huh, big sis?’ And you give me a wise smile with a flippant ‘Not even close’?”
“We could go that route if you want,” I deadpan.
He grins. “Nah. I won’t patronize you. I’ll just take your money and spin it into ice cream like Rumpelstiltskin.”
Considering ice cream is basically gold to my little brother… Touché, Ryan. Touché.
15
FRIDAY NIGHT, OUR DEBUT IS AN ABSOLUTE BLOWOUT.
As in, we’re winning by a lot, even though the Friday night lights did nothing to improve Brady’s shitty footwork and entitled attitude.
No, it’s a total blowout with a three-touchdown lead and counting (we’re only in the third quarter) because of a single factor: number thirty-two.
Aka Jake Rogers, senior captain and all-area running back.
Aka the legs propping up the entire Northland Tigers football team.
I’d known that was the case ever since I was first approached by Grey and Coach Shanks.We’re a runningteam, but… we still need someone calling the plays and chucking the ball to our running back.
But, still,seeingit in an actual game—as opposed to practice—is way crazier than being told about it by Grey, by Coach, or even by Jake himself. Though Jake only did his telling in dribs and drabs when we were first dating. A little show-off line here or there like, “Well, itispossible to score eight touchdowns in a game, because I totally did that against Central last year.” I’ll let you figure out how he totally worked that into a normal conversation with his softball-playing girlfriend.
And though he probably was exaggerating, he wasn’t lying about his talent. Not in the slightest.
And sitting here on the bench with Grey, watching the team from Wyandotte Rural get steamrolled, I’m sort of dumbfounded. I mean, why did they even need a third-string quarterback? Brady’s thrown the ball three times. Literally. And every time it was because Lee and Shanks intentionally called a passing play to fake out the defense for, like, five seconds. I almost feel as if I should ask Grey if he wants to go squeeze in between Addie and Ryan in the stands and eat the remainder of their popcorn, because there’s literally no reason for either of us to be down on the field.
A slip of darkness falls over the bench, blocking out the scorching late-summer sun—Coach Shanks. He leansin and the shadows fade out and there’s a big old crinkly smile on his face.
“Rodinsky, you’re up.”
I gape at him. “I’mwhat?”
“After this play, I’m putting you in. Orange Nine to Tate. Worthington, get her ready.”
He disappears and Grey stands, but like my first day of scrimmage, my legs won’t seem to move. My mouth, though, is sputtering my thoughts out loud, completely without a filter.
“But that’s a passing play—” Tate shoots left, crossing before a catch and turn. Orange Nine. “Why would we do that?”
“He wants you to score.”
Jake just ran seven yards for a first down. The ball is at the fifteen. Meaning, unless Jake doesn’t score here or makes a rare mistake and actually loses ground, it’ll be the perfect time to try a passing play. If it’s unsuccessful, we still have another try before a field goal or going for it on fourth down.
Grey places himself right in my line of sight and squats down. The half smile he wears so well seems bigger at this angle.
“He wants you to score because he knows you can. Pass rush is extra tough just outside the red zone. Coach knows you’re mobile and won’t do something stupid with the ball, like give up an interception or stand still for a sack.”
I blink at him. I haven’t scored a thing since a two-run homer in the seventh inning of my final club game this summer. An entire month without scoring, because, let’s be honest, scoring in scrimmage doesn’t count. And somehow I get a chance to do it here and now in a sport I’ve played for just over a week.
How is this real life?
Grey pulls me over to the track for a quick game of catch, my body still warm from tossing with Brady at the half. Meanwhile, on the field, Brady covers the ball in a pretty shoddy attempt at concealment before dumping it into Jake’s hands yet again. Jake is tripped up by the defensive line for once, only gaining two yards.
Which means we need eight yards to reset the downs. Putting on my helmet, I glance to Shanks—something he’s completely expecting because his finger is already pointing to the field as he makes eye contact. “Orange Nine.”
We’re still doing the passing play.
No pressure or anything.
