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We’re winning.
It’s not an entirely foreign concept. This has been Arlington’s best season in nearly a decade. We’ve gelled well as a team and every guy has stepped up.
But we’re playing Lincoln University. The dark green jerseys down the field symbolize the team that has topped the Division I rankings for the past four years.
Matt slaps my shoulder. “You ready, Stevens?”
His eyes are alight with excitement, visible underneath the bars of his helmet and the smudged black on his cheeks. Every guy on the team is buzzing with the anticipation of notching a W against Lincoln. We’re the obvious underdogs.
But Matt gets what this really means. His level of anticipation mirrors mine.
I glance at the scoreboard a third time. Less than a minute left. We’re ahead by two touchdowns.
Football is a team sport. Each team has eleven guys on the field. There are plenty of variables beyond any one person’s control.
But still…
I could beat Weston Cole.
This is the last time we’ll ever be on a football field together. He’s entering the draft, but I’m not. Whenever Arlington’s season comes to an end this year, that will be the end of my athletic career.
We lost to Lincoln by seventeen points last year. I played half the game after our starting quarterback got a bad sack. By then, Lincoln had all the momentum. The final score could have been much more embarrassing.
This entire game, I’ve been waiting for the shift. There were moments against Alleghany when I thought there was a chance. When winning felt like a realistic outcome. And hope can be the cruelest of fates. Dreams within reach are especially painful to watch slip away.
I don’t hate Weston Cole. Not anymore. In a bizarre twist my high school self never would have seen coming, I like the guy. I’d be more shocked if he didn’t eventually become a permanent part of my family than if he does. He and Maeve are more solid than ever.
But he’s still the reason I never beat Alleghany.
Some small part of me will always associate him with that failure. It doesn’t matter that the jersey he’s wearing today is Lincoln green instead of Alleghany blue. In my head, the field I’m on is Glenmont High’s. And for the first time, I’m seeing a scoreboard that inflates my chest rather than deflates it.
“Liam!”
I glance over at Matt, who’s starting to look a little worried. “Let’s finish this.”
Instantly, his worry turns back into excitement.
Seconds seem to stretch into hours. Lincoln calls a timeout. The home crowd is screaming. It’s a night game, so the massive lights are on, flooding the stadium like a spotlight. Play resumes. I throw a short pass to Taylor, one of the receivers. We gain eleven yards. Ten seconds are left on the clock now, and we’re still in possession of the ball. I call a new play.Nine.Scan my receivers.Eight. Seven.They’re both well-covered by green jerseys.Six.
The crowd starts chanting the final few seconds down. I spot an opening in the line and dive toward it, clutching the football in my arms so tightly I can’t feel anything else.
“Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”
I sneak between the line and get tackled, right as the final whistle blows. Some of my teammates come to my defense, pushing the green jerseys away. Another whistle blows as the referees separate the two colors.
“Game’s over, boys,” one of them says.
I sit, holding the football and staring at the grass stains on my knees, in complete and total disbelief.
We won.
Matt is yelling. The other guys are celebrating. I nod and smile and try to take it in, but I can’t. Not yet. It doesn’t feel real. I’m like a wet sponge, unable to absorb anything else.
I walk over to the bench, taking a seat and yanking my helmet off, running my hands over my face and into my hair.
This is what beating Weston Cole feels like.
I rub my face some more, trying to absorb the sensation.
