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He slowly turns his head to me. “We spent five hours shopping last weekend. And the only thing we had to find was a tie to match her dress. Just one tie.” He shakes his head with disbelief. “Her dress is black. I thought everything would match it.”
“Crawford. My office,” Coach shouts across the locker room.
I don’t move as I ask Neil, “Well, did you find one?”
He smiles. “Yep.”
“Good.” I sluggishly stand, then make my way to Coach’s office. Fortunately, all he wanted me for was a is-your-head-and-arm-ready-for-the-game chat, so I’m able to tell him what he wants to hear even if I’m not one hundred percent confident in the accuracy of my answers.
I need to get out there and find out. Talking, planning, none of it makes a difference if I can’t back it on the field.
After I leave Coach’s office, I count down the minutes until it’s game time. And thankfully, when I’m finally jogging onto the field, it feels like coming home. Natural. I already anticipate missing the feeling of being on the turf and the game hasn’t even started yet.
Before I know it, the first two quarters are done with, and we go into halftime with a ten-point lead. Then all the mania of homecoming starts. Normally, the team would be in the locker room right now—Coach had already bitched to Thatcher about it—but the principal insisted the team stay out on the field to participate in the spectacle.
I just want to get back to the game and not lose momentum, but that’s not gonna happen anytime soon. They’re announcing each guy in the running for homecoming king, and as they do, we each are to jog to the center of the field where Thatcher stands holding a gold crown.Fuck. I actually have to do this. And when I hear my name, followed by cheering, I want to pull my ears from my head. Can’t I get back to playing football? They can keep all this other crap. But I still do what I’m supposed to and reluctantly take my spot. Thatcher tells the crowd something, but I miss it because that’s when I see her waiting on the sideline… with a smile. Fuck. Here we go again.
Thatcher’s voice booms across the stadium. “Your homecoming king is… Cade Crawford.”
I don’t move. I just watch Morgan and brace myself. She slowly raises her hands and claps while someone tugs and directs me towards Thatcher. He places the crown on my head, but whatever he says doesn’t register until I hear him calling the girls’ names one by one as they lineup nearby.Don’t be her. Please, don’t be her.
Thatcher shows off a sparkling tiara before he dramatically fumbles with an envelope in his hands and acts surprised as he says, “And this year’s homecoming queen is… Morgan King.”
No one is shocked. No one. Well, I am a little. She’s a terror under that shiny surface. Maybe everyone voted for her because they’re scared not to. She looks pleased with herself as she walks over to Thatcher so he can place the tiara on her head. Some lady hands her a bouquet of roses and guides her next to me. Concerning me, Morgan’s gaze doesn’t meet mine the entire time. Her smile stays pointed to the cameras as I stand there like a big idiot and listen to the crowd cheering, the players hooting. Even the squad she terrorizes happily shouts as we smile for the photo op.
The rest is a blur, then we’re shuffled to the sidelines, where a few people are still snapping pictures, including one student I recognize from the yearbook class. “Over here, Coach.” She waves her dad over. It’s when Morgan hooks her arm with mine that I notice the man in a suit behind Coach. My dad. Morgan leans into me as she says, “Good thing I told him to stand by just in case. Can’t miss this great family photo moment, right?”
Dad stiffly moves to my side, his eyes on the ground as Coach moves on the other side of his evil queen of a daughter. Smiling for a few additional pictures, she releases my arm and passes her flowers to someone nearby. Then, she steps to my dad and wraps both arms around him. “So glad you could be here, Mr. Crawford. Are you sticking around for the rest of the game?” Morgan looks to me. “Cade really wanted you to watch him play.”
God, sometimes I really do hate her. I shouldn’t be standing here with her or my dad, with any of this distracting bullshit. And thankfully Coach is in game mode and, as usual, barely acknowledges Morgan or her antics.
“No worries, Cade. Get back to your little game. I saved a seat up front, so I can help your dad to it. That way he has a perfect view of his son making him proud.”
“Crawford, locker room.” Coach pulls me away as he mumbles, “Let’s take ten minutes to regroup.”
Thatcher appears out of nowhere, checking the watch on his wrist. “There’s only two minutes before you’re supposed to get back out there.”
“Then add eight more fucking minutes to your schedule because my guys need to get away from all this distracting bullshit.”
Damn. That seemed intense, but Coach usually is. Thatcher is technically his boss, even though Coach doesn’t teach, but still. Ballsy to talk to your superior that way, but I’m sure Coach is the one who feels superior. That’s just who he is.
By the time I step back onto the field, the first thing that catches my eye is Dad in the front row with a foam finger, waving it around like crazy with a smile on his face. He wouldn’t be here if the evil queen hadn’t told him all about the big homecoming game. Now he can be front and center, playing the supportive father role for his starting-quarterback son. But even if I’m perfect and keep playing, he’ll still disappear at some point. And that’s fine. I expect that. What he doesn’t get to do is sit there and act like he’s dad of the year. He’s just another faceless bastard in the crowd that I don’t know. The only problem is my eyes land on his beaming mug more than once.
Coach calls me on my piss-poor performance in the third quarter, but I already know about it. Even if I didn’t have the big fucking flashing score board to remind me. When he calls the final timeout, there’s enough time for one, maybe two more plays if we’re lucky. Only, the other team has a two-point lead on us.
“Can you get us in field goal range? That’s all I need, Crawford. Can you get your shit together long enough to do that?” His anger reminds me of his blonde spawn. Once they turn on you, that’s it. But this isn’t for him. Or her. It’s for me. “Yes, Coach.”
He calls the play which should put the ball around the twenty-five-yard line if all goes well. But I suggest a play that will get us in the end zone if successful.
Coach looks at me like I’ve lost it. And maybe I have. It’s a risky move. “Are you sure? From what I’ve seen this last half, I can’t count on you.”
“I got it.”
“Hope so.” He slaps my shoulder as he gives me a disappointed look. Is he already expecting me to fail? Don’t fucking know or care. I justneedto win this.
When we step up to the line, the ball snaps and is in my hands. Topher is where he’s supposed to be. But I hesitate a second too long and he’s covered. Fuck. There’s no one open. And my opponents are closing in on me. I do the only thing I can, tuck the ball against my chest and run like hell. I know I should slide when I spot a linebacker in front of me, but I don’t. I need the down. Or the yards for the field goal. And I’m not sure where I’m at on the field or if I accomplished either when I take the hit. It knocks the wind out of me, but I gulp for air and stand up slowly. And that’s when I spot Coach yelling, signaling at the scoreboard then pointing to his watch and the only thing I make out isspike.
I have to stop the fucking clock. We got the down, but it won’t make a difference if time runs out. In record speed, we’re on the line and the center gets the ball in my hands, then I intentionally spike it. The clock is stopped at fourteen seconds. Thank. Fuck. There’s still time.
