“WHITE THREE! WHITE THREE! HUT-HUT!”
Topps snaps the ball and I shoot back, Jake snagging the ball before my arm goes up and back. I bomb throughthe motion as number thirty-two turns the line, breaking into the open. A defender finally wises up and is on him, Jake’s arm propped out in the Heisman pose—
A beefy arm slams into my sternum, the wind and thought knocked out of me as my body plunges to the turf.
The shriek of a whistle; the whizz of a flag in my periphery.
“Football isn’t for girls,” a rough voice informs me when I’m finally on the ground, face to the grass. Something, a hand, maybe, presses me deeper into the sod for good measure.
I roll over, golden jersey stalking away, his number stuttering out in triplicate across my vision.
Fifty-five. Fifty-five. Fifty-five.
He did get me.
Dammit.
But as I rise to my knees, I realize he’s been punished—for both the late hit and unnecessary roughness.
Meaning we gain another fifteen yards and a first down on the play.
Topps lends a hand and I take it, using the solid anchor of two hundred fifty pounds to stand. My knee doesn’t hitch, and for that, I’m thankful. I take a step, and though the bruise is still there, it’s unbothered, the tight sleeve adding support. I don’t even have to pretend not to limp.
“You okay, O-Rod?”
I give him my best smile. “We just made it to the twenty-five. I’m great.”
Topps doesn’t seem convinced, but isn’t stupid enough to harp on the fact that I’ve got a clod of turf lodged in the front of my helmet and a glorious green streak down the length of my number thirteen. I find my dad’s eyes in the stands yet again and he raises a fist.
I can do this.
The boys huddle back up and I confirm Shanks’s call from the sidelines.
“Orange Nine.” Tate’s eyes flash. Our favorite. “Break!”
I make sure number fifty-five gets a good look at the calm on my face. Just so he knows there’s no way in hell he’s affected me now, even if I’ll surely be aching tomorrow.
“ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE! HUT-HUT!”
The ball is gone a second later, Tate in the perfect position.
He slams into the defender but holds fast, and the Jewell player goes down, allowing him to break loose. Tate dodges to the sideline and tightropes it all the way down before being shoved out at the one.
A single yard at the end zone is the most difficult yard in football.
But I’ve got Jake.
We don’t even need a huddle.
“WHITE NINETEEN! WHITE NINETEEN! HUT-HUT!”
I twist my shoulders to expose the ball to Jake, who squeezes it into the three and two on his chest before vaulting over the line and somersaulting into the end zone.
He stands and spikes it, arms out wide as Tate greets him in a chest bump.
Tigers: back on top.
The minutes tick down and we’ve still traded scores.
