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But not every game feels the same. Actually, every single one feels different.
Tonight, there’s something extra going on—an electricity in the air that feels like life is about to change. A pressure pushing down on my shoulders and a current of excitement sparking through my veins.
We’re playing North Essex High School. Their defense is top-notch, but tonight my boys are kicking ass and taking names. They’re monsters—unstoppable—all their fucks surrendered in the last three losses, with no more left to give. Nothing and no one is getting past them. By the fourth quarter, with only twenty seconds left on the clock, the scoreboard is still 0 to 0. It’s the best game we’ve played all year. The ball is ours and if we don’t lock it down with a field goal or touchdown now, we go into overtime.
“Yes! Nice hit, Dumbrowski!” I clap my hands as the players jog off the field. “Good hustle.”
Parker sprints off the bench to me as the offense moves onto the field. But before I open my mouth to give him the play, he calls it himself.
“Wishbone forty-two.”
Well, what do you know.
“That’s right. Good call.” I smack his helmet encouragingly. “You look different tonight, kid—did you grow last night or something?”
He snorts, lifting a shoulder and grinning shyly. “I don’t know.”
He does look different, but it’s not because he grew. It’s the way he’s carrying himself, the way he walks. Hard work and focus will do that to you. Parker stands straighter, head higher, with a solid surety to his steps. Our extra practices have started paying off—being entrusted as the starting quarterback of a varsity team that has your back is starting to take effect.
There’s an air around him that wasn’t there before—Parker Thompson knows where he’s going, and more importantly, he knows exactly how he’s getting there.
“No? What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?”
He shrugs again. “Cereal . . . I think.”
For some kids, direction is all they need. Someone to help them focus, to bring their talents to the forefront. Like a pencil—the lead’s already there inside, it just needs to be sharpened.
“Well, keep it up.” I clap my hands. “Come on, let’s go.”
Parker nods, his face scrunched and serious. He pops his mouthpiece in and slides his helmet on and yells to the offense as they jog onto the field, “Come on, guys, get on the ball!”
The players line up and the ball is hiked, but North Essex anticipates our play. The line holds and Parker adjusts, stepping back, dodging, scanning the field, searching for an opening. We’ve been a running game the last few weeks, so the coverage on our receivers is weak. I know what’s going to happen; I can practically see it before the chance comes . . . but more importantly, Parker can too.
Time stretches, the seconds drag, and everything moves in slow motion. It’s like I’m seeing the field through Parker’s eyes—every route, every angle. And then it all clicks, snaps hard into place.
“Wait, wait for it . . .” I whisper as the players push and clash.
Down field, DJ cuts left at the thirty-yard line, breaking free of the cornerback who’s right on his heels.
“Now.” My voice is low and urgent. My eyes dart from Parker to DJ and back again. “Come on, Parker, you got this. Throw it.”
He looks left, steps back, pumps his arm, reaches back, and throws.
And god damn, it’s pretty.
The ball spirals through the air, high and long and straight, before arching down . . . right into DJ King’s hands.
There’s a rush of sound—the cheers of crowd behind me—and my own blood roaring in my ears.
“Yes! Go, go, fucking run!”
I hop down the field, like an idiot—it’s a coach thing—waving my arms, telling DJ to run. But I don’t need to—he’s already hauling ass.
And just a few seconds later, he sprints into the end zone.
He spikes the ball and points at me. Christ, I love that kid. I point right back at him. And the ref raises his hands, just as the clock runs out, signaling a motherfucking touchdown for the Lions.
The first of our season . . . our first win. Hell yeah.
You’d think we just won the Super Bowl—that’s how it feels. The kids go nuts, rushing the field, hugging each other, bumping chests and smacking helmets.
DJ tears off his helmet, hops the fence, sprints up the stands to the announcer’s box. There’s the squeal of feedback, and then his breathless voice yells out of the speakers.
“I love you, Rhonda! I’m sorry I’m an asshole, but I love you, baby! That was for you!”
Dean appears at my right, pounding my shoulder. “That’s how we do it! Back in the saddle, D!”
And I smack his back. “Damn straight, man.”
I jog out to the field and shake Tim Daly’s hand, the North Essex High School coach. And as I turn around and jog back towards the bench, I spot Callie, on the other side of the fence, watching me.
