Page 53 of The Cheerleader

It’s third and goal for Maine, and we’re all up on the edge of the field yelling encouragement for the defense to hold the line. Maine’s QB takes the ball, fakes a toss to his new favorite receiver, and then runs the ball into the end zone without being touched because no one sees it.

Fuck. Maine’s up a TD. But when they miss the point after, it leaves us with an edge.

I snap my chinstrap in place as Torino calls us into his huddle for a pep talk. While he’s talking, my gaze wanders and catches on the cheerleaders. They’re doing some kind of dance while the band plays, and I automatically find Liz, her legs kicking high and her smile so wide I can see it from here.

Then my eyes wander further down the line to find Susie. She’s not as wild, almost out of control, as Liz. But there’s something about her measured enthusiasm that makes me want to undo her, to find the girl I know she is underneath.

Torino’s voice sharpens, bringing my attention back to him where it should be. “Don’t fall asleep on this one, men. Let’s do some damage. Play like winners.”

As the punt-receiving team trots to the sidelines, we take the field, and Eldy is fierce in the huddle. The fire in my belly roars into an inferno of hunger and need for this win. There’s no thought about why, only acknowledgment that the gnawing sensation is there and it won’t go away. So I keep pressing forward, storming after my unnamed goal, a murky possibility I can’t let myself identify.

We set up on the line of scrimmage, and I feel like an overrevved engine, burning rubber as Eldy calls out, “Twenty-one, fourteen, fifty-two, hut, hut.”

The ball snaps, propelling me into another dimension, and everything is intense and automatic, like I’m a machine with only one purpose.

I carry the ball for the next three plays, breaking for a forty-two yard run to take us inside Maine’s forty-five yard line. It’s still too soon to call my number for the play-action pass play.

Lenny, the wide receiver, comes in from the sidelines with instructions from Coach.

“Fade away route number four,” he says, smiling, because it’s his route. Eldy nods and claps. We disperse to our spots on the line. I’m blocking because the defense is bringing extra pressure.

Almost before the center snaps the ball, the play is blown, and Lenny slips at the line of scrimmage, missing his chance to get out on his route. Their linebacker is bearing down on Eldy. He needs to get rid of the ball.

I dart around the end and get free while Eldy darts the ball at me just as the LB hits him. The ball is high, but I leap to get it, and when I land, I twist left to avoid a tackle. Barely staying in bounds, I take off at a run, catch a block by Chuck, spin around a safety, and then bullet to the end zone, not stopping until I’m out the other end.

Chest heaving and the ball still tucked under my arm, I trot back to the sidelines where the team is cheering. Eldy runs to catch up with me, the first to clap me on the back. I hold in my wince.

“What the hell should we call that play, you fast bastard? Where did you get that extra speed?”

“It’s called game gear.”

“I never saw you run that fast in practice,” Lenny says, slapping my helmet.

I reach the bench and grab a water bottle, squirting it in my mouth in between gasps for air. Shit. I thought I was in shape. But I expended every bit of energy and wind I had in me, and I’m fucking depleted.

Al Preconi, acting like he’s my personal athletic trainer, grabs me by the arm—on my good side—and sits me on the bench.

“How’s the ribs?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he lifts my jersey and starts unwrapping the ace bandage.

“I wasn’t paying attention until now,” I say through gritted teeth.

I don’t get back in the game after that, but our defense wakes up and Maine doesn’t score again. UConn scores two more touchdowns, but Eldy points out to me that I scored the winning touchdown.

After the game, while the cheerleaders dance and the marching band files out playing the UConn fight song, Coach has a few of us stay on the field as the local press and others gather near the bench. I notice the cheerleaders still there, waiting like they’re supposed to be the last fans to leave the stadium.

“Picking up where you left off, Granger?” It’s the Connecticut Daily Campus sports reporter, according to the press credentials hanging around her neck, reading Anita Yardly. I hope it’s a coincidence that she has the same name as our comp professor.

She’s chewing gum fast enough for me to tell that her tough-girl exterior is mostly bravado. The Hartford Courant and New Haven Register reporters shove their way in front of her.

Shifting my stance, I work around the two guys and answer her question even as the two men toss questions at me, assuming that I’m paying them attention.

“Doing my best. We won.” It goes against my grain to elaborate as she pauses, waiting for more. I want to give her a fair shot, but I’m not going to do her job for her.

The New Haven Register reporter jumps into the void, brusque and louder than he needs to be. “Is it wise for you to be playing through an injury just to break a record or impress the scouts?”

Shit. I don’t say a thing. Coach Torino, even though he’s in the middle of his own interview, turns to me with a silent command, but he doesn’t need to worry. I’m all on board with the mind-your-business philosophy of handling the press when it comes to injuries and health, or anything that’s personal. The only thing that’s fair game for Q&A, as far as I’m concerned, is the game we just played.

“I play to win the game.” I turn to the next question, which is about whether I’m trying to break a yards-gained-in-a-season record—my own, from last season.