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When I notice Neil has exited the building, he shouts that it’s time to take the field. “I have to go,” I tell my brother.
“Let’s just get through this game, then we can talk about the future tonight. All right?”
Hearing the enthusiastic roars of my teammates makes me want to vomit as I turn to my brother. The one who talked me into joining the team. And the one asking me to lose the game tonight. “Fuck talking. Fuck the future. And fuck you.”
Turning my back to him, I join the fellas who won’t be happy four quarters from now. But as angry as I am at my brother, I can’t risk his well-being. Minutes later, we’re running out onto the field, and it’s all a blur after that. From the coin toss to halftime and all of it that follows.
Every hit, every throw, feels more intense and dreadful than the previous. Each muscle in my body feels tight, heavy like my body is shutting down and not wanting to cooperate with my mind. Because I keep holding back, throwing to places where I know the ball will be out of reach. And it feels wrong and deceitful. So, I finish this play by just tucking the ball against my chest and taking the sack two yards short of the first down.
“Crawford, what the hell was that?” Coach asks, his hand flapping over the field where Johnson is punting to the other team. “I’m not going to tell you again, get your head in this goddamn game, or your perfect season will end tonight.”
Already has.
Plopping down on the bench, I take the sports drink that Neil hands me as he gives me a nervous once-over before he moves along without any questions. He’s already asked me a million times if I’m good, and he knows I’m a fucking fraud every time I said yes.
The Wildcat offense takes the field way too soon as the play clock winds down. There’s plenty of time for me to put points on the board as we’re trailing 14-21. But that’s not what I’m stepping on the field to do.
The first snap goes off okay as I pass it off to Topher. And unfortunately, he gets a first down and way too close to the end zone.
I need to end this.
When the next snap is made, the ball touches my fingers and I grip tightly, looking down the field. No one is wide open, but Becks would be an easy target if I wanted him to catch the ball. Instead, I intentionally underthrow it, the defensive player easily picking off the pass and runs it back twelve yards before he’s tackled at our forty-yard line. The opposing players are celebrating before he even stands. The defensive players run off the field for their offense to take over as I make my way to our sideline. I jerk my helmet’s chin strap loose before tugging my it off and dropping it on the ground.
It’s done.
I’m done.
The Bulldogs will run the clock down and time will run out with them coming out on top.
And that’s what happens. The Bulldogs celebrate their win as I walk to the locker room. Inside, the Wildcat atmosphere is grave and hushed as we make our way down the tunnel. Only thing that disrupts it is Coach’s yelling. He gets in my face and my back goes to the brick wall.
“What was that? What happened? Why didn’t you get your head out of your ass and get the ball where it should be?”
I don’t move or respond as he rants while the tunnel clears out. He takes in a deep inhale, lowly saying. “You play better than that. Was this some test to see if I’d out your ass?”
“No.”
He doesn’t seem thrilled or convinced with my answer as he responds, “I will bench you if you’re going to fuck up the entire season just to show me you can.”
“Bench me then. But that’s not what happened,” I say flatly, knowing I need some explanation. “I had an off night, Coach.”
His questioning look reduces a bit, but I don’t think he’s completely persuaded. How could he be? No one around here is doing the right thing. Everyone has ulterior motives, lying to each other, and just looking out for themselves.
Coach takes a few steps back, staring at me before he shakes his head and walks away. My back is still against the wall when I look towards the opening of the tunnel by the field and spot Morgan heading somewhere with Ava.
She’s watching me, confusion clear on her face. Yeah. She knows I should’ve been able to capture this win with ease. But she’s right—I have to play the hero. Because even though I say I didn’t have a choice, I did. And I decided to save my brother and, in turn, my father. Because that’s what I do. Play the hero. Or more like the easily manipulated chump.
30
MORGAN
It’s been a solid hour since the game ended. The field is clear, the parking lot is mostly empty, other than a few stranded vehicles left behind. Pushing the building’s door open, I walk through the corridor and make my way into the locker room. I wasn’t sure what I’d find, but what I’m seeing isn’t what I’d expected.
I figured he’d be here angry, maybe even pouting like he was pregame. Pissed off and willing to argue would be better though. Instead, he looks broken. Defeated. Helpless. His shoulders are slumped over, his palms pressed flat against the tile wall of the shower. Water sprays over him, gliding down his bare body.
“Get the fuck away from me.” His flat tone pulls at me, but I have to remember why I’m here. And it’s not for him. It’s for me. Even if I’ve gotten a little too comfortable with him lately.
“Are you sure that’s what you really want?”
