All Lined Up

by Cora Carmack

  Her voice is low and hollow, and it kind of echoes in my ears, until I feel sick with pain for her.

  “You know what you need to do?”

  “Grow up?”

  I brush all her hair to one side of her neck and lean down to kiss her shoulder.

  “You need to dance.”

  She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “This again?”

  “I’m serious. It’s what fixes you. I can tell by the way you talk about it.”

  Her answering smile is sad. “How is it that you can see that when you’ve known me for so little time, and he can’t?”

  I know she’s talking about her dad.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to see past our own broken pieces.”

  I want to say that they’re really not all that different. They’ve just found different ways to heal themselves, but I’m not sure it’s the time for her to hear that. I think she might need to figure that out herself.

  “Come on.” I take her hand and pull her to her feet. Together, we walk over to the open space in my apartment where she wrapped her arms around me in a hug not that long ago. I pull us back into that position, but this time I keep her hand in mine. It’s nothing complicated, but she lays her head on my shoulder and we sway together. Someday, I’ll learn how to do more, but for now I hope this is enough.

  “What fixes you?” she asks.

  A month ago I would have said football. I would have answered her immediately and automatically. But now, if I’m honest, and she always makes me want to be . . .

  “I don’t know.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE IN the locker room the next day is downright arctic. No one likes our chances for Saturday, me included. And when you stick dozens of young guys in a room, most of whom prefer to deal with their feelings through aggression and physicality, too many of us are itching for a reason to break something.

  This morning, Maz, a massive offensive lineman from Alabama, put a hole in the wall in the weight room. Well, two holes technically, one with each fist. And the locker room is short two chairs—one broken by a player and the other by a coach.

  I’ve managed, just barely, to stay above it and stay focused, and I suppose that pisses some people off.

  Carter, the defensive lineman who I already couldn’t stand for talking about Dallas a few weeks ago, is the first to push me.

  “Saw Firecracker sitting on your truck last night, McClain. What’s that about?”

  “It’s about being none of your business,” I answer, lacing up my cleats.

  “Wasn’t enough for you to take over QB from Abrams, you had to go for his sloppy seconds elsewhere, too?”

  I drop the cleat I’m holding, and I slam him hard into the wood bracing between cubbies. Something splinters, and the uneven edge probably hurts like hell, but I don’t care.

  “Say one more fucking word about her, and I swear to God, I’ll lay you out, Carter. And once I’m done beating every ounce of shithead out of you, I’ll hand you over to Coach and see what he thinks of my work.”

  He snarls, “Fuck you.”

  I’m ready to slam his head against the wood frame behind him when someone grabs me and pulls me off. Strong arms loop under my armpits, forcing my arms up.

  Whoever’s holding me growls, “Get that idiot outside. All of you, go.”

  Torres and Brookes both step toward me, but they hesitate, look at whoever has me, and then leave with the rest of the team. Only when everyone is out does the guy release me. And when I see who it is, I’m ready to go postal all over again.

  Silas Moore.

  He’s too fucking close, and I push him back, struggling to stop myself from doing more.

  “Don’t you say a fucking word about her, Moore.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender.

  “I get it. I’m not exactly at the top of your list right now. Understood.”

  “Try right at the bottom.”

  “I’m an asshole. I know it. You know it. But I’ve got nothing against you, and I’ll stay far away from Firecracker.”

  “Stop calling her that.”

  “Done. I’ll make sure the rest of the team lays off, too.”

  I grit my teeth because even though he’s not said anything wrong, I’ve got nowhere for all the anger to go.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I might have been friends with Levi, and sometimes we might have gone too far with some things, but I’m not him. What he did was stupid and careless, and it makes us all look bad. I’m not going to tank this team over some misguided loyalty to him. I care about this team, and we all, myself included, need you to be on your game. So if you need something from me, it’s yours. Whether it’s to shut up idiots like Carter or run plays or lift—whatever it is, I’ve got you.”

  “I still think you’re an asshole.”

  “Yes, but I’m an asshole who’s got your back.”

  He holds out a hand, and after a few deep breaths, I take it.

  “Let’s go to work.”

  Chapter 22

  Dallas

  I didn’t think there would ever come a day when I would willingly step foot into another football stadium to watch a game. Add to that the red Rusk T-shirt I’m wearing (which clashes oh so horribly with my hair) and the fact that I’m kinda, sorta, definitely dating another football player (which I swore I would never do) . . . and yeah, it’s a day of improbable things.

  The crowd is absolutely huge. It took Stella and me nearly an hour just to drive the few miles to the stadium, and then another forty-five minutes to park and walk to the nearest entrance.

  Between our fans in red and the Dragons’ in green, it looks like Christmas threw up all over everything. I could have gotten tickets from Dad to sit with all the other coaching families and school administrators, but I didn’t want to tell him why I was coming. There are plenty of things my dad hasn’t picked up on over the years, but my abhorrence for football is not one of them. My sudden interest wouldn’t go without questions.

  I think I might actually be ready to tell Dad about Carson, but that’s not just my decision to make. Carson has enough on his plate at the moment without worrying how my father will react to the news of us together.

  One thing at a time.

  That’s what I’ve been telling him since the news broke about Levi.

  We’ve both just got to take it one thing at a time.

  It’s still over an hour before kickoff, and the student section is basically full. Stella and I cram ourselves onto the edge of a bleacher right next to the band. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, but we’re only ten rows up, and we’ve got decent visibility as long as we stay standing up.

  I pull out my phone to text Carson, but I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him something that matters, something big, but the only thing that comes to mind are those three little words that we are so, so not ready for.

  I tell Stella as much, and she pauses in unwrapping a piece of gum to say, “I’ve got three different words for you. Winning = BJ.”

  “Stella!”

  She pops the gum in her mouth. “You said you wanted something big that matters. I think that qualifies.”

  “You’re terrible. And no help whatsoever.”

  “Speaking of big things . . . ” Her slow-spreading smile reminds me for the thousandth time how different we are. “How big is it? You can tell me.” She bounces her eyebrows a few times.

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “You spent the night last night.”

  “Yeah. But we just slept.”

  “I mean, I know you’re not having sex. You would have told me that. But you haven’t done . . . like anything?”

  I wince. I really do need to tell her about Levi, but at this point, I’ve lied for so long, I almost think it will cause more damage to tell her the truth.

  “We’ve both been a little preoccupied with other things.”

  “All the more reason to find a little distraction in each other
. It’s good for the mind. And the body. And the personality. Just about everything, really.”

  I ignore her and stare at my phone.

  I type out a text.

  Sending you all my daredevil vibes. I’ll

  wait for you at your place after.

  “Naked,” Stella says, reading over my shoulder. “Tell him you’ll wait for him naked.”

  “I’m going to have to lock my phone, aren’t I?”

  “Jesus, you don’t lock your phone? What century are you living in?”

  “Not all of us spend our days sexting.”

  “Oh my God, speaking of sexting. Carson’s friend Ryan is surprisingly dirty.”

  “You’re sexting Ryan? Seriously? I thought you weren’t interested.”

  She shrugs. “I’m not. But he’s fun. That’s all it is.”

  My phone buzzes.

  I wish we were already there.

  “He’d be wishing a lot harder if you’d added my suggestion.”

  “Why don’t you go mentally scar a band member or something?”

  She takes me seriously and starts scanning the bleachers next to us for potential victims.

  I want to keep texting Carson, but I don’t want to distract him. This was going to be a tough game to win before everything that’s happened. The whole team will need to really focus and come together to pull it off.

  So I shove my phone back in my pocket and sit down. I bounce my knees and force myself to think about something else.

  I’m really close to mastering the dance I choreographed on the night of Dad’s birthday. I’ve been working on it gradually, trying to re-create the piece that I imagined in my head.

  It hasn’t been easy. In my imagination, I was stronger and more flexible. But I’ve almost got it down. And when I do, I think I’m going to show it to Carson. He’s been bugging me to dance for him, and that piece was inadvertently inspired by him.

  Between thoughts of dance and Stella, I manage to keep from texting Carson before kickoff.

  The Dragons win the coin flip, and they choose to receive first. As the guys line up, everyone in the student section raises their right hand, shaped like a claw for our mascot, the wildcats. They shout and scream and go wild, and the sound races around the stadium, filling up the entire space with noise. I pick out Carson on the sidelines, number twelve. He’s bouncing back and forth on his toes, shaking out his arms, trying to stay loose.

  If the first run of the game is any indication, we’re in for a world of hurt.

  The opposing team breaks through our defenses, finding every hole and returning the opening kick sixty-eight yards all the way to our thirty-yard line. I squeeze my fist tight and press the back of my hand against my mouth. They get two first downs in a row, and then score on the third play. The kicker makes good on the extra point, and just like that Carson’s going in, and we’re already down by seven.

  Stella holds my hand, and I resist the urge to close my eyes.

  He can do this. He works so hard. He’s got it.

  He takes the snap, looking to hand off to Silas. But when the defensive end crashes down on him, Carson keeps the ball and makes a break through the gap, surprising everyone with his speed. The safety takes him down with a hard hit that makes me grip Stella’s hand a little tighter, but not before Carson’s pulled in a twelve-yard gain.

  I breathe a little easier.

  On the next play, the defense has wised up to the fact that he can run, and they’re more conservative in the options they give him. He gets a decent look with one of his receivers, but the pass goes a little too far left and ends up incomplete. He shakes it off and follows it up with a handoff to Silas that gets a small gain. It’s third down, five yards to go. When he drops back, he doesn’t have more than a second to scan the field before a Dragon player breaks through the line like it’s nothing. He slams into Carson from behind, and he hits the ground so hard I gasp.

  He gets up and he has held on to the ball, which is something, but I can tell from the way that he holds his body that he felt that one. And we lost ground on the play, too.

  It’s fourth and twelve, and we’re still deep in our own territory.

  Dad opts for the punt, trying to get the ball as far away from our end zone as possible.

  On the sideline, Dad looks like he’s tearing the offensive line apart. His arms are waving so wildly that no one has to hear him to know he’s pissed. Carson is farther down the field, bouncing on his toes just like he was at the beginning.

  Please don’t let this affect you. It wasn’t your fault. You’ve got this.

  While the band blares away beside us, the Dragons score again. The crowd around us grows restless. I hear Levi’s name a few times, and my stomach clenches.

  Before Carson takes the field again, Dad stops him with a hand on his helmet. He leans close, talking to him for a few seconds, and I hope Dad knows what he’s doing. I hope he’s as good as people have always said he is.

  “Go Carson!” I scream.

  I know he can’t hear me, but it’s more for me anyway. I just want to feel like I’m doing something.

  Whatever Dad said, it works.

  Right out of the gate, Carson hits one of his receivers for a forty-yard gain, putting us in Dragon territory for the first time. He follows it up with his own carry for fifteen, and all the douche-bags who’ve been grumbling around me are cheering.

  Next, he hands off to Silas, who skirts two, three, four defenders before he finally gets dragged down by two guys on the fifteen-yard line.

  The screaming around me is so loud, I swear I can feel it vibrating the metal bleachers. The student section starts chanting “Go Red. Fight Red. Bleed Red.” And even though it’s morbid, I scream along with them.

  And when we score with a reverse pitch to Torres, a wide receiver, the sound is deafening. The band immediately picks up with the RU fight song, and for a few seconds, I remember what it was like to love football. Before Dad and I fought so much and before Levi ruined me more than I already was, there had been something special about the game for me. I loved the way one person could start a chant, and soon a stadium of thousands had picked it up and were screaming in unison. I loved that kids who didn’t give a crap about school were suddenly belting the school song from the top of their lungs. I loved those tense moments before the start of a play when everyone is wishing and hoping exactly the same thing, and the whole stadium holds its breath.

  Even now . . . I can admit that there’s something a little bit magical about it.

  And I get why Dad does it. Not just football, but his whole thing. To take a team and a town that doesn’t believe and bring them together, I can see how that would fill him up, to the brim, just like dance does for me.

  Chapter 23

  Carson

  I taste blood from a busted lip. Nausea rolls in my stomach. Every part of me aches . . . inside and out.

  Because we lost.

  I know we all went into this expecting it, but . . . I still hoped. And now all that hope sits rock hard in my stomach, rotting and gnawing at me, asking, What if?

  What if Levi had been here? Would we still have lost?

  I sit at my cubby, a towel over my head, while sweat drips down from my forehead and stings my eyes. I hear a pair of pads crash into the wall, and guess that it’s Silas, but I don’t know for sure.

  “Listen up.” It’s Coach’s voice, and even though I want to stay huddled beneath my towel so I don’t have to see my teammates’ faces, I know I can’t. I push the towel back around my neck, but stay leaning on my knees. Coach is silent for too long, and when I glance up, I realize he’s been waiting for my eyes. I sit up a little straighter.

  “I’ve been here before,” he says. “Which is how I know that none of you are in the mood to listen, but you need to. So put aside what you’re feeling for just a few minutes, and hear me out. No one was expecting you to win this game.” I wince. We’d all been thinking it, but it was worse hearing it out l
oud. “No one was expecting you to come out and rush two hundred yards and pass two hundred and fifty, which for those of you paying attention is the most this team has had in any one game in over two years. It also happens to be more yards than your competitor put up tonight. That scoreboard might have had us losing by three tonight, but one look at the stats proves that you fought harder, played stronger, worked better than you ever have before. No one was expecting you to give that team a fight, but I promise you that people will sit up and pay attention now.”

  He pauses and moves toward the wall where he lays a hand against the painted wildcat, beside which it reads, “Bleed Rusk Red.”

  “You know, a few weeks ago, I stayed at the office late. And when I went to leave, I didn’t expect to see a player sitting in the film room, still hard at work hours after practice had let out. I asked why he hadn’t gone home for the night, and do you remember what you said, Carson?”

  I know what night he’s talking about—the night he fought with Dallas—but all I can remember is thinking about her, wanting to go to her.

  “You told me that there are no easy days. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Today was not an easy day. This week was not an easy week. But every single one of you fought through it. I’ve coached and played against every kind of team, and I’m telling you now, this team will be the kind that takes no easy days. This team will be the kind that fights every last second for every last yard until we see that win on the board. And for days like today, when we lose, I promise it will be the hardest damn win that other team has ever had. That’s the kind of team we will be. It’s the kind of team we are as of tonight. And I tell you, I’m damn proud to be your coach.”

  No one is slumping or frowning anymore. Everyone looks deadly serious, like we’d go out and play another game right now if we could.

  “No easy days?” Coach says.

  And together we repeat, “No easy days.”

  He tells us to hit the showers, and before we do, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Silas, and he nods at me once before walking away. Torres does the same, followed by Brookes. I lose track, but it must be at least twenty players who throw me a nod before they strip and head to the showers.