I get the snap off with a second to spare and rocket back, eyes out for Trevor Smith’s number eighty. He comes in on cue, trailed by a defender. Arm back, I fire, nailing him right in the hands. Smith takes the guy behind him on a spin move and points his body downfield, end zone in his sights… until two bodies come flying in. He dodges one but is stonewalled so hard by the other that the ball slips out.
This time, the defender catches the fumble and boomerangs in our direction—head down, plowing past the line before anyone can react.
Whatthewhatnow.
Every Northland jersey is immediately chasing him—including me. But the element of surprise is good enough for a five-yard advantage.
The whistle blows. The kid in Central red raises the ball high above his head. The end zone at his feet.
Nonononononono.
The scoreboard says it all.
Home, 48. Visitor, 42.
Time remaining: 0:00
There’s no need for an extra point. They’ve already won.
26
WE MEET IN THE VISITING TEAM LOCKER ROOM, AWAYfrom the prying eyes and celebratory chants of the Central faithful. Heads down, hearts on the tile. When Coach Lee enters the room, none of us can make eye contact. Not even me.
Our coach. Retiring at the end of this year. And we just laid an egg on his final football dream.
To get to state, we can’t lose more than two games. It’s almost mathematically impossible to make state with three losses.
And now we’re 1–1.
Even worse, both games were against the cupcakes of Kansas City.
In the coming weeks, we have to play Tetherman andEastern at home, plus South County on the road. Not to mention we get Jewell Academy, brother school to Windsor Prep and state champs, as a treat for homecoming.
One loss in that onslaught and chances are we won’t play for the league title or make the regional finals, aka substate. No substate, no actual state.
Shame and exhaustion squat in a cloud over the room. Coach’s voice comes through it all, sharp enough to hack through the gloom.
“Hello, Tigers.”
“Hello, Coach.”
At our answer, there’s a pause. Coach taking his time to find the right words. I barely know him and his hesitation hurts as much as the loss.
“Tonight we got beat. That’s the simple truth of it.”
There’s a tangible sinking to the room, even though everyone is standing. We can’t sit for this man. Not after letting him down.
“Oh, I know the scoreboard doesn’t tell the whole tale. It doesn’t give Sanchez credit for blocking the field goal attempt and landing on the damn ball. It doesn’t account for the fact that Rodinsky should’ve gotten her sixth TD for the night the second that ball hit Smith’s fingertips. It doesn’t account for those who didn’t play tonight.”
Coach Lee nails each of us with eye contact as he goes down the line. It stings. Jake can’t even look at Coach, his eyes scrunched shut.
“The final score doesn’t give credit or an explanation. All we get is a loss. That’s it. That’s football.”
It is. And every other sport. There’s no gray area. There’s winning and losing. Pass/fail—no B-minus.
“This team was 10–2 last year. That number doesn’t account for all the close calls that could’ve made that number more like 7–5 or 6–6. It doesn’t take into account that we were five yards away from taking Jewell Academy out in substate.”
I purse my lips. I was at that game, before I started dating Jake, shivering in sneakers and a Windsor Prep letter jacket with Addie and the softball girls. Five yards and Jewell’s season would’ve been over. And all those boys wouldn’t have been nearly as big of assholes at the winter formal.
