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I chew at my mouthguard and nod.
“Yes, Coach,” I spit out.
My face hurts from all of the fists that have somehow found a way through my mask. I have what looks like a tampon shoved in one nostril, and my wrist is wrapped so tight I can’t feel my fingers.
“Go, go, go!” Coach waves our squad out with one hand while clutching the playbook in the other.
James runs backward, checking the play calls on his wrist against the set of numbers his dad holds up with his fingers. When we get into the huddle, he stares at me.
“You good?” His eyes plead with me. He wants this.
“Yeah, I’m good. Bring it on, baby.” I clap a few times to psych myself up as James calls the play sequence I anticipated. Basically, I’m going to try to eat up the clock by running the ball four yards at a time. When the time is right, they’ll be expecting him to throw it to Theo for the win. That’s what worked for our last two touchdowns. It’s literally theonlything that has worked. But the Lipson guys don’t know I have an extra level of crazy. You don’t do half the shit I’ve done without shedding a certain amount of fear of being hurt. And as long as my legs work, I’ll keep moving forward.
“Break!”
We scatter to our positions, and I line up to the right of James, legs primed and ready to barrel through what’s coming. At the snap, I rush five yards ahead, where Lipson anticipates the block, and before James has a chance to get me the ball, I’m hammered into the ground after illegal holding.
“You like that, Welles boy?” The lineman pushes my head into the ground as he uses my facemask for leverage to stand up. The whole thing earns him another penalty and us another fifteen yards. It also gives me my first glimpse into what the fuck is going on.
Welles boy.
I can’t know for sure, but my gut tells me Lipson might be surfer-cowboy Cole’s school. If not, I have a suspicion that’s where most of his friends attend.
James sets up and calls the same play, only this time I’m ready for the dirty play coming our way. I manage to dodge the reach for my collar and slip past the guy gunning for me. James flips me the ball and I turn to pound my feet into the turf as hard and fast as I can. I make it seven yards before I’m brought down by at least five guys.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I spit out, nodding at the guys on their line as I flip the ball to the ref. I usually get whistled for trash talk, but I think they’re granting me a little extra leeway today on account of the massive abuse my body has endured.
We pile in for a quick huddle, but there’s nothing to say. James looks to me and nods and we all yell, “Break!”
We’re running it again. And when they figure it out, we’ll run it reversed.
I manage to make it ten yards this time, which puts us within field goal range. Worst case scenario, we go for an onside kick and hope for a fumble.
“Hey, eighty-eight!”
My favorite lineman has been shouting at me all night. He loves my number.
“Yeah, you hear me. The hurt is coming, son. It’s coming.”
What he doesn’t realize is how much power his shit talking gives me. I can actually see the blood red skin of his cheeks when he shouts. I bet his veins are bulging at his temples.
James touches my chest in the huddle.
“Hey, you want us to change it up? You need a break?” He’s worried about the number of hits I’m taking. My head feels fine, though. As hard as I’ve been knocked down, somehow nothing has rung my bell. I’m pretty sure my nose is broken, but my head? It’s on right.
“I’m good. I’m good. Hit me again,” I say, pounding my chest.
Theo laughs at my right.
“You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that Cam?” he says.
My mouth stretches into a wide grin while I chew on my mouthguard and bounce on my feet with this strange excess energy. I’ve reached that second level, the one beyond exhaustion. I could go for hours now. I feel good.
“Woo! Eighty-eight is your favorite number, baby!” I shout to my friend, echoing the other team’s line as a way to piss them off.
“Yeah, you’re my favorite . . . favorite dead man lying on the ground,” my opponent growls as he sets up on the line.
I shake my head to right my focus and huff out my breaths like a bull ready to attack. James gets me the ball even faster this time, and I manage to spin and break out for an eleven-yard gain. I’m almost to my feet again after the play when my antagonizer flies at me with a strong arm across the chest, drilling me into the fifteen-yard line.
