Page 2 of Making It Burn

We answered six plays after, one of those ugly goals that don’t make highlight reels—shove, scrape, dig, shove again—and then the ball was in the net because we wanted it more.The roar from the stands hit my back like a wind.

From there it turned into what it always turned into with Beau and me: a game inside the game.He was one of those players who made the field seem tilted toward him and moved as if he’d rehearsed the geometry with God.I was the counterargument: a metronome with blood in it.He tried to bait me into overplaying, and I didn’t oblige.

By halftime we were tied at three, sweat cooling in a sheen on my forearms while Coach gave us water and orders.His eyes found me again.“Stay even, Price,” he said.“Let him be the one to chase.He breaks down when he has to chase.”

I knew who “he” was.

The third quarter was a fistfight in slow motion.Bodies collided and separated.A kid in the row behind our bench screamed, “Murder them!”and his mother told him to hush.

And then, with four minutes left and the scoreboard at 5–5, the game snapped.

It happened fast.We turned them over at midfield on a sloppy pass; I scooped the ground ball clean, and my legs were already pumping, the lines blurring under my cleats.The Saints scrambled.I cut right, chopped my steps, and saw the lane open like a seam in cloth.

And there he was.

Beau came at me like a comet—shoulder to chest, his stick a bright flash in my periphery, his hips dropping center of gravity like he’d practiced it a thousand times while trying not to think about my name.

I planted my feet to take the blow and split, but his stick skated off my glove and bit into me deep—an ugly, accidental rake that slashed across the top of my thigh where the padding thinned.

“Shit!”I clenched my teeth.

My foot slid, and my balance went sideways.The ball squirted free, and my knee kissed sod.Beau’s shoulder clipped my ribs, and we both went down in a tangle.

The whistle blew, two at once—the foul and the stoppage.Noise roared up and then tunneled down into something thin and far away.

“Damn it,” I heard myself say, conversationally, like I’d dropped a book on my toe.I looked down and saw red blooming through my uniform.

Hands grabbed me—teammates, a trainer, and Coach’s shadow loomed overhead.The world narrowed to the smell of earth, rubber, and the iron tang of blood.

“Let me see,” the trainer said, and his fingers were already peeling back my pants.“Deep scrape.You’re lucky, kid.Hold still.”

A few feet away, Beau stood with his helmet off, breathing hard.He was saying something to the referee.“I went for the stick—I didn’t mean to, please tell him…”

“You’re benched, Thatcher!”someone barked.

Coach knelt, blocking my view of everyone but him.“You with me, Price?”

“Yeah.”My voice sounded like it had gravel in it.

“You’re done,” the trainer grimaced, still pressing on my thigh.“He needs stitches.”

Coach didn’t look at the trainer.He looked at me.“We’ll man up,” he breathed.“We’re going to win this, Price.”

It took me a breath to understand he was telling me I was out of the game.

I nodded once, and the trainer and a teammate hauled me to my feet.

I refused to limp, despite how much it hurt.There was no way I’d let Beau see me in pain.But as I moved, I felt it—a stare landing on me, bright as a spotlight.I turned my head and saw him ten yards away.His mask was off, and it looked like guilt and defiance were warring on his stupidly symmetric face.

He mouthed something I couldn’t hear.

Maybe it was “Sorry.”Most likely it was “Fuck you, Price.”

“Next time, Thatcher,” I whispered.

They taped me up like a Christmas present on the sideline while the game resumed.The Saints’ parents were on their feet, screeching.Our section throbbed with anger and love.

And in the end, we won.