I turn back to the fight, now broken up, the coaches and refs turning both sides back to the sidelines. I tell myself he has to be okay. They didn’t bring another cart. Another medic. No one is circled around someone unable to get up because they’ve suffered yet another brain bruise.
And then, there is Grey—helmet on (thank God), gait strong, walking off next to Nick, who’s helmetless but appears fine. When he sees the look on my face, Grey breaks into a run, taking off his helmet when he gets to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, eyes searching.
“Are you?” I ask Grey, and my voice is all weird andstilted. There’s so much in it I don’t say, and the fact that Nick doesn’t know about the concussion looms large in the front of my thoughts.
He winks. “Rogers is gonna live and we’re ahead by a touchdown—I’m most definitely okay.”
29
GRADE ONE CONCUSSION, DELIVERED BY THE RIGHThook of a Tetherman lineman immediately after the dude plowed Jake into the ground on a super-duper late hit. Not even close to Grey’s injury, but a prescription all the same for butt-to-bench therapy.
Jake’s out the rest of the game. Just like the delinquent who took him down, and it doesn’t seem fair that they have the same punishment. That’s not an eye for an eye, it’s a slap on the wrist for a brain bruise.
My mind is a jumbled mess once we’re back and settled. Tetherman scored on the next drive, and so now we’re tied at 17–all. But with fewer than thirty seconds left, it’s our turn to end this and avoid overtime.
The kickoff return was a great one—Chow getting usall the way down to the twenty. Coach Shanks signals for our first rushing play and Jake’s backup—a runny-eyed sophomore named Levi Towson—looks like he’s just been asked to scale the Taj Mahal.
“Orange One.”
There’s nothing different about my voice in the huddle. But there’s everything different about the reaction.
All ten boys are silent.
Towson just stares at me, glinting eyes begging me to take it back.
So I repeat myself. “Orange One.” And give a descriptor. “Straight through the middle.”
Blink, blink—Towson stares at me. Tate isn’t having it—that eye roll could probably be seen from Pluto. “Let’s just Orange Nine it up in here and finish this on first down. Kid’s not ready.”
He isn’t. But that’s not the point. We respect our coach and our teammates.
“Orange One.”
“But—” Towson begins. I don’t let him finish.
“Orange One.”Handclap. “Break.”
That buzzing crowd comes in now, an entire wall of orange, on its feet, a wave of noise crashing over our movement toward the line. I settle in behind Topps. Towson is a yard behind me, shaking like the wimpiest leaf known to man.
Dude, grow a pair.
“ORANGE ONE. ORANGE ONE. HUT-HUT.”
Topps shoots the ball into my hands and I rocket left, ready to pick up Towson before he jukes through a hole made by the offensive line and leading straight toward the end zone.
Only Towson isn’t there.
He’s gone the wrong way and gotten tangled up in the meaty palms of a defender on the right side.
Shit.
I tuck the ball against my body and jerk two steps until I’m lined up with the hole, narrowing by inches each second. I grit my teeth, twist my shoulders, and dive through, aiming for the white end zone paint just beyond a Tetherman lineman’s back foot.
A body comes flying in crossways at my ankles, pushing my lower half into a spin and throwing off my balance. I brace for impact, the turf rushing up toward my face, my body now parallel to the white line of the end zone.
Wait. The ball can’t just hit the ground. It’s got to hit before my knees.
