They set up in good position to send the ball into the endzone, but then a stupid holding penalty drops them back fifteen yards. I let my camera hang freely around my neck, digging my fingernails into my forearms as I watch James shout for the guys to get into position. It’s only a second down, so they have a couple of chances, but they barely have time to make it happen. A handful of seconds in football means they have time for two, maybe three plays.
Rather than try the rush, which hasn’t been all that successful this game, they opt for a pass, but it’s broken up in the endzone thanks to good man-to-man coverage.
Third down.
They try again. Same result.
My stomach, which has been in a tight knot all game, gets so taut it almost hurts. I can feel myself sweating everywhere, under my arms, on my forehead, down my back. I shove my hands underneath my armpits, inching as close to the field as I dare. The crowd is as loud as ever; Alabama fans dying to begin celebrating, McKee fans collectively as anxious as I am. I wonder where James’ family is sitting—probably up in one of the boxes. All of them traveled here for this—we had dinner the night before at a fancy restaurant—and yet all I can imagine is Richard Callahan’s face, as intense as ever, as he leans in to watch this one final play.
Fourth down.
Two seconds to go.
Either they score a touchdown and win the game, or they lose.
“Go James!” I shout; my voice doesn’t carry at all, but somehow, he hears me. He looks right at me; I can barely see his face with his helmet and face guard on, but I know he sees me.
He sees me.
Before him, I don’t know if I believed in love—not really. I believed in the idea of it, the way it could hurt people, but I didn’t believe I would truly feel it, or that I deserved it anyway. Every step of the way, James has shown me I do deserve it, that I deserve someone like him, someone good and devoted who makes my heart sing whenever I see him. Someone who makes me feel like I’m worth something more than the life I resigned myself to when I was a teenager. Someone who pushes me and protects me and holds me when I cry.
The moment we locked eyes at that party, he saw the cracks in my armor, and he hasn’t stopped prying it away since.
James drops back, scanning the field. The receivers fan out, but the only one who shakes coverage is Darryl. He has a clear shot to the endzone this way; all James has to do is deliver.
I don’t even bring the camera up to photograph the moment. I want to see the exact second James realizes he just secured the win, that he accomplished the goal he’s been chasing all season.
He slings the pass—but it sails right over Darryl’s head.
The clock runs down to zero.
Cameramen rush past me onto the field to capture the moment. The stunned McKee players, still on the field, and the way the Alabama sideline has exploded with cheers. The stadium, which had been a healthy mix of red and purple before, looks pure crimson now, Alabama fans going nuts as the win sinks in. I look for James, but I can’t see him in the crowd.
“I’m sorry he lost. Tough time to lose his accuracy,” Harold says, giving me a sympathetic frown before jogging past me.
I know I should move—I don’t want to see this moment. I don’t want to see James congratulate the other team on a job well done. I know he can make that pass; I’ve seen him do it all season in spots like this. Darryl was wide open. It wasn’t like he made the throw under pressure; his offensive line kept the Alabama defense away from him.
No, it wasn’t a mistake.
He threw high on purpose.
He threw the pass high because he didn’t want Darryl to catch it—even if it meant losing the game.
And I know he did it for me.
40
JAMES
The moment the pass goes over Darryl’s head, I expect the regret to kick in, but I can’t feel anything but satisfaction, savage and biting. The whole half, I tried to keep my cool, to detach and let my instincts for the game take over. It worked—mostly. Then I’d see Darryl’s face or catch sight of Bex on the sideline with her camera in hand, and the slow-simmering rage working its way through me threatened to explode. I’d see her crying face in my mind, hear the fear in her voice, and had to work at not punching his sorry ass then and there and getting ejected from the game.
All around me, my teammates look stunned. They were fully expecting me to make that pass, and I let them down. I ought to feel bad about that, especially for my fellow seniors. But I don’t care. Not now. Not when rage is coursing through me like fire and Darryl’s been put in his place.
The Alabama quarterback jogs onto the field, heading in my direction. He shakes my hand, congratulates me on a season well done. I congratulate him on the win and tell him he played hard, which is the truth. Alabama played a good game. The fact it was so close heading into the end, and that we needed a wild play to win it—that’s on me too. I should have led more touchdown drives early in the game. If I had, then we wouldn’t have been in this position in the first place.
I get caught up in the congratulations, the condolences. I shake so many hands I can’t count, but the faces are blurred; I barely recognize anyone right now. I want to find Bex, to scoop her up into my arms and hug her tightly, but I can’t leave now. This, like everything else—like the pass I fucked up on purpose—is part of the job interview I’ve been working on since I was in high school. Can I be graceful in defeat? Do I give credit where it’s due? This wasn’t the first big loss in my life, and it won’t be the last. Rookie quarterbacks in the NFL don’t tend to do well; it takes a year or two to get used to the pace of the professional level. My future employers are watching this moment right now, making sure I’m not about to fly off the handle.
Of course, they don’t know that I messed up that pass because I couldn’t stand the thought of Darryl winning the game when a couple hours before, he kissed my girl without her fucking consent.
Finally, we shuffle off the field, back into the tunnel. No one speaks. I see Bex lingering outside the locker room, but I don’t go to her, not now. I need a shower first, and a clean change of clothes, before I face her reaction to what I did for her.
She’s going to be mad, but I don’t give a shit. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’d burn down the whole goddamn stadium if it meant keeping her safe.
Coach Gomez gathers us together in the locker room, looking around at all of us. A lot of the guys are still breathing heavily. A couple of them are crying. I bite my lip, shutting my eyes briefly.
“You played a tough game,” he begins.
“Bullshit,” someone says under his breath.
Coach turns and glares in the direction of the voice. “You played your hearts out until the end. I saw that. It takes fucking grit to get this far, and you acted like men just now, giving the other side the credit they’re owed. This isn’t just on the last play. Our opponent was—”
“Fuck you,” Darryl snarls, shoving his way to the front, past Coach, so he gets right in my face. He has dirt streaked on his face, mixing with sweat; his eyes are wild right now, dark and filled with hate. “Fuck you, Callahan! You fucked me!”
He lunges at me, knocking me back into the lockers. His fist connects with my mouth; pain explodes across my face, and I taste coppery blood immediately. I bring my knee up into his groin; when he doubles over, I grab him by the shoulders and knock him down onto the floor. He flails under me, but I press my knee into his stomach, making him gasp, and take a swing at his face. Pain explodes along my hand and up my arm as my fist connects with his stupid, cocky mouth. He grabs at my face with his hand, trying to push me away; I knock back his hand and dodge the next fist he tries to swing at me. “I fucking warned you,” I say, digging my knee down until he gasps. “I warned you not to use those words, asshole. I warned you to leave her the fuck alone.”