Trick Play

by Alison Hendricks

  Trick Play

  Alison Hendricks

  Contents

  1. Luke

  2. Brandon

  3. Luke

  4. Brandon

  5. Brandon

  6. Luke

  7. Brandon

  8. Luke

  9. Luke

  10. Brandon

  11. Brandon

  12. Luke

  13. Luke

  14. Brandon

  15. Luke

  16. Brandon

  17. Luke

  18. Luke

  19. Brandon

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Alison Hendricks

  1

  Luke

  It feels great to be back on the football field.

  Our fans are on their feet as we run out of the tunnel. The stadium is packed with college kids, alumni, and folks from the community, all hoping we’ll have a way better season than last year. Honestly, I’m hoping for it, too. After the killer season we had before that, back when I was just a freshman, we got crushed hard last year. All the papers and sports shows are saying we don’t have a chance this season. But I believe in my team, and so do the thousands of fans waving blue and white towels in the stands.

  When we get the ball, I feel that rush I get every time I spring up from the bench and take my place behind the offensive line. Our QB, Davis, has had some time to grow into his role after Hawk left a few years earlier. He calls the play, and I already know it’s going to involve me trying to hurtle through the wall of guys who are staring me down like they want to eat me alive.

  Adrenaline hits me hard at the snap. Davis fakes to pass, but the defense doesn’t fall for it. He hands off to me right before an LB comes in for the kill. I pivot, using my speed to get around him, and sprint toward the break I see in the line.

  A few seconds later, I’m hit hard by a wall of solid muscle. The guy knocks the wind out of me, and it’s all I can do to clutch the ball to me as I go down. Damn good thing I do, though. It would’ve been an easy touchdown for them.

  When I stop seeing stars, I toss the ball off to the ref. Davis helps me up. Over the next couple minutes, we make it down the field but can’t get the TD before fourth down comes rushing up to meet us. We’re inside the thirty, though, so it’s Special Teams’ time to shine. I grin as I head for the sidelines, spotting Brandon as he straps on his helmet.

  “Make sure you kick the ball this time, man. Don’t just take a chunk out of the turf.”

  He rolls his eyes and punches my shoulder pad. “Good tip, thanks.”

  I flash him a grin as he jogs onto the field. Brandon Tucker and I have been friends since junior high, when we both played football at the Y in our shitty little backwoods town. We weren’t on the same team at first, but a little trash-talking and some bonding over stupid kid shit and we were pretty much inseparable. And because there was only one high school where we grew up, we ended up in school together, too. When the college recruiters came knocking, the choice for us was easy. Eastshore was the only school that wanted both of us, so that’s where we went.

  Brandon’s a steady, dependable dude, and the whole kicking the turf thing hasn’t happened since we were kids, so I’m not surprised when he kicks it right between the uprights. He gets a good punt, too, and it’s up to our D to stop the drive after we get a three-point opening lead.

  We stay that way until the half. Every time the ball comes to us, I get my ass in gear and get ready to break some rushing records, but Arkansas’ got that shit on lock. The line stops me hard most times, and when they don’t, there’s somebody in the backfield waiting to take my ass to the turf before I can pick up the first down, let alone get a breakaway. Our passing game doesn’t go much better, with a few incompletes, a few screens chucked over the line, and only a handful of plays that actually connect and manage to grind out a first down.

  For those two quarters, it feels like we’re constantly struggling to break even. As we sit in the locker room—with the AC busted, just to make matters even worse—I can tell the guys are on edge. I’m on edge, too. A lot of our games last year went just like this. Our offense has gotten weaker overall with the seniors leaving, and with Mills and now Erickson gone, our D is suffering, too.

  The Tigers just aren’t in a good place. But fuck if I’m giving up already.

  “Yo, game’s not over yet,” I say to a room full of guys who look like somebody just killed their favorite dog. “We’ve still got three on the board.”

  “Yeah, a field goal after two quarters,” Davis says. “Meanwhile, they’re stopping every drive we make.”

  “And we’re stopping theirs,” I say. “Chill out, dude. You start worrying about losing that lead, then we’re damn sure gonna lose it.”

  Davis grumbles something, but when Coach comes in, his speech is pretty much the same as mine. Just a few less ‘yo’s and ‘dude’s. I can’t say everybody’s feeling awesome afterward, but at least they’re hiding their pessimism pretty well, and I have a good feeling when I take the field after the half.

  This is it. This is the play that’s going to be shown on ESPN tonight. I’m going to break right through that line of mean-ass fuckers and run it all the way down the field for a touchdown.

  Davis hands off the ball, and I run straight for the hole our offensive line has made for me. I can see my path. It’s clear, and I’m ready to put on some speed and head toward the sidelines. But just as I think I’ve gotten through, I feel a hand around my leg. I try to dodge out of the grip, but I can’t regain my balance. The second defensiveman hits me hard, and his hand comes all up into my face, pawing at the ball like he’s some pissed off grizzly bear.

  I’d almost laugh, except for the fact that when I hit the ground, I don’t have the ball tucked against my chest anymore. My helmet smacks against the ground, my ears ringing, but I try and scramble for the ball. Too late for that. The grizzly bear who stripped it from me has picked it up, and he’s running with it.

  I expect the flag. Apparently the rest of my team expects it, too, because only a rookie is chasing the guy. But there’s no flag. No whistle. The grizzly bear runs his heavy ass right over the goal line.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell from the ground, not bothering to get up just yet.

  Losing the ball when you think you’ve got a clean break and being the source of the opposing team’s TD? Feels bad, man.

  I get my ass up and head for the sidelines where I feel Brandon clap my pads.

  “That was some crazy shit. Should’ve gotten the holding call.”

  “Yeah,” I say absently, not bothering to watch them make their extra point.

  Brandon‘s always been the kind of guy who’s okay with telling white lies if it means nobody gets hurt. He won’t tell me it’s my fault, for example; that I got too fucking cocky and let the ball go when I should’ve held onto it at all costs. He won’t point out that we’re down four, and the team’s already lost a ton of momentum so a comeback doesn’t seem likely.

  I don’t buy into that pessimist shit, though, so I play like I know we’re going to put points on the board. And we do. Enough to where we’re ahead, and then enough to tie when they get a field goal. Deep into the fourth quarter, though, they’re stopping all our drives again, and I start to just hope we can stand the punishment until OT.

  It all goes to hell real quick. Their QB manages to get it pretty far downfield with a miracle pass, and with three minutes left, they’re set up to score near the thirty. We force the field goal, but it goes in without any fuss.

  That puts Arkansas up by three, and if we want to have any hope of winning, we have to haul ass down the field and pass that goal line again. Not a big deal, right? We’ve pulled off clutch
plays before, and I’m not going to do anything stupid this time.

  Davis lobs some passes, and we crawl up the field. I get a first down, buying us a few more chances. An incomplete pass that bounces off the fingers of a lineman damn near makes my heart stop, but eventually we’re inside the forty.

  It’s a long shot from here, but I know my boy Brandon can make the kick if we need him to. We get a few more yards, but fourth down smashes us right in the face before too long, and Brandon takes the field with the rest of his crew.

  I’m not worried about it. If my heart’s beating a little faster while I watch him stretch, it’s because I just got done playing like I was doing it for my life, not because I’m afraid of what’ll happen if he misses. Brandon’s good. Like sixty-yard field goal in the worst possible wind conditions good. He doesn’t let mental shit get to him. He can make the kick.

  But as soon as the ball is snapped, I’ve got a bad feeling about the play. Something’s going on with their line. D isn’t usually so aggressive during a kick; at least not one that’s just going to tie the game. It must spook Brandon, too, because his strides aren’t as sure as he runs up to make the kick.

  I hear the satisfying sound of his cleat hitting the ball, but it isn’t followed by the sound of the crowds cheering. It’s followed by a smack of glove against pigskin. Some Superman motherfucker just jumps straight up into the air and manages to bat it down. The guys scramble to recover it, but it’s marked dead before anybody can get anything going.

  The game’s over. Yeah, there’s some time left on the clock, but everybody in this stadium knows Arkansas is just going to take a knee and run it down. The few Razorbacks fans are screaming their heads off, and when I glance to the stands, I can see our fans leaving. They don’t want to see this. Truth be told, I don’t want to see it, either.

  I can’t worry about that, though. It’s one game. I know that. But I’m not sure Brandon does. He’s slow to get into position for the punt, and I can tell he’s carrying the weight of that missed field goal on his shoulders. I stay on the sidelines, waiting. I’m not going to be able to pick up the whole team. But I can at least make sure Brandon isn’t getting down on himself. A loss I can handle. Watching my best friend let that loss inside his head? Not so much.

  2

  Brandon

  I missed the field goal.

  I can’t believe I missed a thirty-six-yard field goal.

  All right, so I guess if I’m being honest, I didn’t really miss it. It got knocked down before I could see whether or not it would’ve gone in. But the fact that it was low enough to be in range of some huge guy’s outstretched fingers means I messed something up with the kick. Hit it in the wrong spot. I remember back when I first started working on my kicking game, my coach always used to blast me for making contact with my toe instead of my laces.

  I don’t know what went wrong. I won’t really know until I can see the tape. All I know is I feel like shit. We had such a bad season last year, finishing last in the SEC and in the bottom third of all the D1 teams. It wasn’t like we lost every game, but coming off a championship, it hurt. And to think we’ve just started off the season like this? It’s disheartening.

  I walk over to the sidelines after the punt, in no hurry to clear the field. My helmet hangs in my hand, and I try to just keep looking straight ahead, instead of at the fans who are probably about ready to throw stuff at me. I know Luke’s waiting. I can’t look at him, either. He’ll want to put a positive spin on this—tell me it wasn’t my fault, because he’s my friend—but right now all I want is to not be in this stadium.

  He’s there when I finally make it to the sidelines. He puts a hand on my arm, and I try my best not to feel comforted by it. I’m supposed to be in a mood, dammit. I don’t need to remember that Luke touching me either makes me calm or… the exact opposite of calm.

  “Hey, man. You okay?”

  “I’m great. Pretty much my life goal to have a game-deciding play blocked.”

  “Don’t do that sarcastic shit with me, dude,” he says, his hand still on my arm. “I’m serious here.”

  I look off into the stands. I know it’s a mistake. Especially as I see the Eastshore sections emptying out in droves. But I can’t really look at Luke’s warm brown eyes right now.

  “I know. Sorry. Just… it sucks. Feels like this year’s going to be just like the last.”

  And that’s bullshit. Luke and I both busted ass over the summer and spring. We were up at the crack of dawn, running together, hitting the gym, conditioning until our lungs seemed about to give out. During practice, we played like it was post-season. To have it all unravel so fast is just… pretty devastating, to be honest.

  “Hey.” He puts both hands on my shoulders, his grip sure and strong. I’m forced to look up at him. “Don’t say shit like that. It’s one game. Arkansas was out for blood. We’ll get ‘em next time.”

  It’s easy for Luke to say that. He comes from a family of ‘we’ll get ‘em next time’s. I come from a family of ‘do it right the first time, or don’t bother trying again.’ Being friends with Luke is probably the only reason I didn’t just turn into a useless ball of perfectionism and anxiety.

  “Yeah. I hope you’re right.”

  It’s the best I can give him, but Luke pushes for more.

  “Yo, you can be all ‘I hope you’re right’ on your own time. You didn’t see yourself out there, man. You had some big plays. You should’ve seen their coach’s face when you fucked up their plan to run it back.”

  Despite my mood, the corner of my lips quirk into a small smile. I swear sometimes Luke is like a bull bashing his head repeatedly against a red wall. But damn if he doesn’t get it to crumble more often than not. And when that wall is me? Well. I can’t ever say no to Luke.

  It’s a problem I picked up about a year after we met. Back when I realized I was totally into him. Which happened about 2.5 seconds before I realized I could never have him as anything more than a friend.

  It helps that he’s a really good friend, though.

  “He looked pretty pissed, didn’t he?” I ask.

  “Hell yeah. Thought he was gonna blow a gasket.” Luke flashes me a brilliant grin.

  The clock runs down as their QB takes a knee, and it hits me again that we’ve started off the year with a loss. Luke being here and being himself helps, but it’s not really enough to break through all the garbage in my head. The worse off we start this year, the worse my chances are for making anything happen with scouts. And without that… I don’t know. Luke’s dad would probably give me a job if I asked, but other than that? My future doesn’t look too great. I’ll be the token gay kid living in a small town that pretty much thinks ‘the gays’ are the worst thing to happen to America.

  When the game is called, we shuffle off to the locker room. It’s not exactly silent—our locker room’s never really silent, no matter how bad we get pummeled. But it’s pretty damn quiet, with none of the horsing around that usually happens. Most of the guys are just eager to shower and get on with the rest of their day. They’ll probably spend it at The Top, the bar the team always goes to, win or lose. But I doubt I’ll be tagging along.

  Hard to commiserate with your teammates when you know you’re the reason they lost. No matter what Luke says.

  I get dressed and get ready to make my excuses when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Sorry about the game, boys.”

  Erica Byers is standing in the middle of our locker room, surrounded by half-dressed guys and nobody’s got a care in the world. That’s the way it’s always been, though. For Luke and me, and eventually for the whole team. Erica’s press badge is kind of a formality at this point, but it does give her a leg to stand on whenever Coach tries to throw her out.

  There’s a few murmured thanks, and one idiot from a row of lockers back makes a crude comment somewhere in the vein of ‘if you want an interview, I can get you an exclusive with my dick.’ I shoot him a glare, but so does
Luke. I guess he has more right to than I do. Luke, Erica, and I grew up together. Same small town, same backwards families, same desire to get the hell out without really managing to get too far away.

  Luke and Erica used to date, though. For a pretty long time.

  But Luke doesn’t bother beyond the glare. He’s standing on the row opposite mine, pulling on his shirt, and he just ignores it. I realize why a second later.

  “Sorry, babe. I only run full-length features.”

  The locker room gets worked up over that, and I have to smile. I should have known Erica could handle it herself.

  “You doing a story?” Luke asks, toweling the last of the water from his sandy brown hair.

  A couple years ago, he might have greeted her with a kiss. And as much as I envied her, I couldn’t ever really get jealous over the two of them. I’d known they’d hook up at some point. The whole town knew it. It was just a surprise when they didn’t stay hooked up. Sometime last year, they decided they’d be better off as friends.

  “Probably,” she says, “but that’s not why I’m here. Figured I’d give you an out if you wanted to skip the team spirit rah rah stuff tonight.”

  She looks pointedly at me, one fine brow arched. I smile in gratitude. There’s another reason I couldn’t ever be jealous of her. She seems to get me. She’s like a sister to me, but way less annoying than my own sisters were. Most of the time.

  “Mac’s?” I ask, already knowing that’s going to be the agreed upon place.

  “Hell yeah,” Luke says, hanging up his cleats in his locker. “Give us a few to get our shit together, and you can meet us at the truck.”

  “10-4,” she says, giving Luke a two-finger salute.

  Nobody really tries to get us to stay. Sure, we have friends on the team, but they all know the three of us are pretty much our own unit. Luke and I finish up, and I grab my bag. We check in with Coach Haynes before we go, make sure there isn’t some big team meeting or something, then we head out to find Erica sitting on the dropped-down tailgate of Luke’s old Ford.