“Coach said orange. We’re doing it again.”
“That’s stupid.” Tate again.
“That’s the order.” My eyes meet his. “Catch it this time.”
Tate’s mouth falls open.
Jake stays silent, which is half-amazing, considering I know he’s itching to take a running leap over both lines.
But I don’t care what either of them thinks, goddammit. I want to score.
“Break!”
One more chance to make the play. One more chance before giving it up to special teams for a field goal. One more chance to keep going.
I cozy up to Topps and yell out the play, loud and clear, daring Wyandotte Rural to wrap their heads around the fact that, yes, we’re doing the very same play. Again.
Bring it.
“HUT-HUT!”
I shoot back in the pocket and scan the line for Tate. He’s gotten free of his defender and is running the play at a perfect clip.
I line up for my shot as the linebacker to my left—the rhino’s companion—comes charging my way. I dodge the other way, toward the blank space where the rhino would be if our line hadn’t tripped him up. Line up my shot again. Throw.
Tate jumps up and to his right, hands out. The throw’s slightly off, the ball grazing his fingertips and popping up for a split second. I hold my breath, but then both his hands wrap around the ball—right as I’m flattened by the Wyandotte Rural linebacker.
We go down in a rush, my helmet hitting the turf in such a way that it blinds me from the action. I lie still—breath gone but otherwise fine—waiting for the guy to get up, unable to see what’s happening. But I hear something happening.
Cheering.
Lots of it.
When I get to my feet, my breath stops just as surely as it did when Kelly clocked me with her fastball at state.
There’s Zach Tate’s number eighty-two.
Far, far away from me.
In the end zone.
He’s got the ball over his head, lets out a holler, and then spikes the crap out of some turf.
A touchdown.
My head whips around to the scoreboard to see that, yes, they’ve already added six points. I scored. Tate scored.Wescored.
I know what scoring feels like—I’ve been sliding into home base for as long as I can remember—but this is just… I don’t havewordsfor what this is.
“O-ROD! TOUCHDOOOOOOOOOOWN!” Topps screams—whirling around as quickly as 250 pounds of awesome can whirl—and picks me up.
Like, literally.
I’m in the air, nearly to his shoulders, smiling from ear to ear, when I glimpse Grey, over on the sideline, applauding with a huge grin on his face.Huge.
There’s nothing “half” about it at all.
And it comes with a wink.
