I get into the huddle, and it’s the weirdest sensation ever because everyone is staring at me for word of what we’re doing like I’m not the greenest of them.
“Orange Nine.”
“What?” That comes from Topps, who got promoted to first-string this week, along with Nick Cleary.
“I know.”
“Why?” This comes from Jake, whose face is curdling before my eyes.
“I have no idea, but that’s what Shanks said.”
“But—”
“That’s what Shanks said,” I repeat, staring down Jake and my own nerves. “So we do it.” Jake, the rest of the huddle, and my nerves go silent. “Break!”
We jog out to our places. I bend my knees, stuff my hands way too close to Topps’s junk, and call out again, all too aware of Jake’s annoyed eyes pinned to my helmet from his spot deep in the backfield.
“ORANGE NINE. ORANGE NINE. HUT-HUT.”
The snap comes and I’ve got the ball in my hands. I race back and look out for Tate, number eighty-two.
On the play chart, he’s supposed to zoom in a right-to-left cross about five yards from the pocket. I hold my breath and look for a body in orange moving in that general direction. Instead, I see all too clearly a body on each side of me, rushing toward the pocket—linebackers on the move. And, unlike in practice, if they get to me, these two dudes are going to drill me into the turf.
No running wide at the last second. No stopping short. No mercy.
Automatically, my feet start moving and I shoot wide left, dodging the linebacker there, while trying to lose the guy on the right side. But the dude keeps coming. Fasterthan Tate is getting to his spot. And because I’m running the same direction he is, the whole play is falling apart.
And I’m being tailed by a rhino.
Christ.
In another step, I get my arm back and aim the ball straight at Tate. We make eye contact as I release the ball. Which is about two-tenths of a second before I’m steamrolled to the ground by the aforementioned rhino.
As I’m falling, I glimpse the ball sailing right through Tate’s hands and into the mitts of some guy in Wyandotte Rural powder blue.
Shit.
The guy bobbles the ball up, and my helmet hits the turf before I can see if he catches it.
Double shit.
I stay still, hoping to God I didn’t just notch an interception. I mean, that’s what it looked like. And if that’s what it was, I’m never playing again. Ever. It’s a good thing Grey’s supposed to be cleared for the next game because Coach Lee is gonna can the experiment that was Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback.
Finally, the rhino rolls off me and I stand up.
The defense hasn’t come on the field yet and the whole Northland offensive line still lingers in generally the same position as before, thirteen yards out from the end zone.
Okay. I take a deep breath.
So I wasn’t intercepted. I was lucky as hell. The dude must have dropped it.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the down marker flips from second to third. Still alive. And somehow, this is all I need to know, the embarrassment and pain of the hit rolling off with the realization that we have a second chance. Football may be brutal, but the downs structure is actually forgiving in a way that softball really isn’t.
Shanks mouths my marching orders—ORANGE NINE. I blink at him. And then run to the huddle.
I have to work to find my voice after that hit, but the words still come out firm and clear. “Orange Nine.”
“Not White Nine?” That’s from my freaking target, Tate, asking if it should be a running play.
