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THIRTY

cameron

My alarm blares but I’m already awake.

I’m not dragging ass this morning. It’s Saturday. Big day. I sit up to grab my phone, squinting at the harsh blue light, and open the Shafer website to navigate to the grades portal. I have to try three times to enter my password correctly, my eyes bleary and my stomach knotting tighter after each attempt. Finally, I’m in. I click on the link for my honors ethics class. My knee bounces hard enough to shake the whole bed as I wait for the stupid page to load. Then there it is. My grade for my essay. Ninety-seven percent.

“Holy shit.” Ninety-seven percent.

I flop back onto the bed, pull a pillow over my face and just smile. I feel amazing. Relief has got to be the all-time most underrated emotion. I might actually pull off an A in the toughest class I’ve ever taken.

I try to savor the feeling, holding at bay thoughts about everything else that awaits me today. I want to call Lenni and tell her. I want to show Reeve the grade. I want to text Cash and Lorenzo and Mom and spread the word around, but it wouldn’t mean much to them, and anyway, I don’t want them to see how much it means to me. And already the glow is fading, giving way to familiar anxiety because the essay isn’t the only reason I couldn’t sleep last night. In a few minutes, I need to be up getting ready for a much more public test of my abilities.

The house is silent while I take my shower. Normally, this is when I let my pregame nerves really unravel, wash them down the drain, but the fear that’s been on my back since I found out about the scouts attending today’s game just isn’t there. When I close my eyes, all I really feel is the usual low-level anxiety—that I can deal with. Because here’s the thing, I’m as good as I’m gonna get. I might be good enough to impress some scouts, I might not. But I have other options. When I shrink my world down to just me and my brain, here’s the truth: this game isn’t do or die.

Of course, it’s easy to think that way when you’re standing naked under the cool spray of your shower and really feeling yourself because you aced a killer midterm paper.

It’s another thing when you’re doused in sweat that’s more from nerves than physical exertion, and Coach’s yelling has finally brought his elusive forehead vein throbbing to the surface, and you realize you actually might die because he’s going to kill the entire team if we don’t start showing up to play.

“What the fuck is wrong with you bunch?” Coach Haskins throws his clenched fists out to the side. “We can’t afford one more mistake if we want any shot to get back in this game. Not one! Get your heads out of your asses and make a play!”

It’s the fourth quarter and we’re only down by two points, but the scoreboard doesn’t begin to tell the story of our awful showing. At least the scouts watching will be just as disillusioned with the rest of the team as they surely are with me by now.

We came into this game heavy favorites, but our execution on offense has been horrible, and if not for our defense, we’d probably be down two touchdowns by now. It’s now or never to get this going and keep our season on track. A loss to an unranked team at home would destroy our chances of making it to the national championship—not to mention be a complete humiliation on the worst day possible.

We take the field under Coach’s menacing glare and huddle up. We run the ball on first down, but in keeping with the day’s trend, we only pick up a yard. On second down, the play comes in and my number is called. It’s a play action designed to get the ball to me on a deep post route. I line up to the right, the ball is snapped, I see the safety biting on the run fake, and I know I’m gonna have a chance to make a play; one that could turn this game around.

I beat the corner off the line, and I’m pushing upfield to get behind the safety. I’m in full stride and I see the football airborne. Reeve’s put crazy air under it, and as I watch it come down, I know I’m going to have to lay out to bring it in. I dive hard and instantly feel the ball on my fingertips. Thank fucking god. I start to haul it in, but I crash to the ground harder than expected and I can’t hang on—the ball pops out.

Incomplete.

That was our chance for a big play. It was in my hands, and I should have had it. I can’t believe it. I look up and see the fans with their hands on their heads as an unmistakable sigh of disappointment sounds throughout the stadium. On the sidelines, Cash throws his helmet down and a couple guys have dropped their heads in frustration.

Much as I’d love to take a dirt nap right now, I peel myself off the ground and get back to the huddle. We have another chance to pick up a first down and keep the drive alive, but it’s third and long. Not easy when the best thing we’ve done all quarter is gain a single yard.

“We need to pick up a first down here!” Coach threatens. Like this is Pee Wee football and we had no idea our entire season hangs in the balance.

Reeve turns to me. “We’re coming back to you again. This one’s got your name on it.” His eyes stay on me, and he nods; we’ve been here before, pulled through far worse together, though at the moment it’s hard to remember anything worse than this game.

We break the huddle. Pretty simple play: I just have to beat my man, get to the chains, and catch the ball. At the snap, the corner gets a strong jam on me, and I have to fight to get off the line. I push upfield, but he squeezes me toward the sideline. The defense blitzes Reeve and he’s forced to get rid of it quickly. To complete the pass, Reeve throws it low and away and I have to break hard back to the ball to make the catch. It’s on target and I reel it in as I go to the ground. But my heart plummets when I look up. I’m a yard short of the first down marker.

Three and out.

We have to punt it again.

I slink off to the sidelines. What the actual fuck is wrong with me today? With all of us? My teammates greet me with subdued pats on the helmet, but I can’t look any of them in the eye. I should have made the catch the first time. I should have gone deeper on the route. No wonder Coach is talking to us like we’re a bunch of elementary schoolers in gym class. The mistakes we’ve made— I’ve made—shouldn’t happen; not for anyone who expects to get to the next level.

The other team picks up a few first downs while I loiter uselessly on the sidelines. I’m sweating as they get into field goal range. The defense is able to hold them to a field goal to keep us in the game, but that leaves us in a deeper hole—down by five points. With less than thirty seconds on the clock.

I’m getting loose to go out with the offense when the special teams coach yells at me, “Hey, dickhead, what are you doing? You’re up!”

That’s when I see Jace, our usual kickoff returner, on the bench getting treatment for his ankle. He must have rolled it on the last drive. My stomach drops. Great. Now the game’s in my hands.

I grab my helmet and run onto the field. Our only chance of salvaging this game is if we get a big play out of this, and I haven’t had a chance to return a kick in a game all year. My heart pounds as I stand on the goal line. I’m looking at a clock with nineteen seconds left to play. We’re down five with our season—and my future—on the line. I’ve gotta make a play to give us a shot.

I glance around the stadium. It’s a blur of red, fans on their feet, a few tense voices shouting out either encouragement or threats. I try not to hear either. I know Lenni’s out there and I know she’s standing, her fingers probably white-knuckled and twisted around each other because even though she doesn’t really care about the score, she cares.

But I’m not going to think about how she’ll want me just the same if I blow this play because for once, that’s not serving me. I can’t let myself off the hook. I have to make something happen.

The other team kicks the ball. I thought they might squib it, but they went ahead and kicked it deep. The ball soars high and far down the field toward me. I watch it moving in slow motion. My heels were on the goal line, but I have to drift back a little into the end zone and to the right to settle under the ball and catch it. Should I just take a knee and down it? Let our offense take the ball at the twenty-five? But no. In a split second, I decide I’m gonna try to make a play and run it out. So off I go.

I catch the ball and head up the field, picking up speed. I hear the first wave of pads colliding with a crunch as the coverage team streams down the field and my teammates start picking up blocks. I make the first man miss with a move to the left and find a seam heading up the hash. That alley collapses quickly, and I pinball off two would-be tacklers and stumble toward the sideline, but I’m able to keep my feet and regain speed. I see daylight ahead, but I still have a man to beat. And it’s the kicker.

I take off up the sideline, but I cut back across his face around the fifty-yard line. Then the whole field opens up ahead of me. It’s a foot race from here. I turn on every ounce of speed I have. I’m vaguely aware of the roar of the crowd as I hear my team blocking behind me and defenders grunting as they dive at my feet while I blaze down the field.

Thirty yards. Twenty-five.

My lungs burn but my muscles feel amazing, strong, every step like fuel on the fire.

Twenty yards. Fifteen. Just ten to go.

Then I feel my shoulder pads tug. Someone’s caught me and starts dragging me down. I fight him off, reaching back to stiff-arm the defender, and manage to keep my feet. As he climbs on my back, I fall into the end zone. The ball is over the goal line.

Touchdown.

My ears fill with the screams of the crowd and the shouts of my teammates as they mob me in the end zone. Lorenzo grins as he jogs toward me, clamps his arm around my helmet and pulls me in for a hug. Other guys batter my back and my shoulder pads excitedly and shout over the crowd. We just saved our season. It was ugly, but it put a smile on Coach Haskins’s face, who gives me an approving nod when the guys around me finally clear. It put a smile on all our faces.

I turn around and look for Lenni in the crowd.