by Tim Green
“We’re friends.”
“Ha! You don’t know what a friend is.”
“I had nothing to do with any of this. Won’t you just talk?”
“No, Brock, and if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scream. I’ll call a teacher and you’ll wish you never came here.”
Brock let his hand fall. “I already wish that.”
“Good.” She gave him one last sneer, then hurried off into the crowd.
Brock hustled to the locker room and threw on his gear. He tried not to look at Asa Pagano, but it was like trying to ignore an elephant in the room. Asa stood just a few inches shorter than Brock, but his bare chest was packed with muscles you didn’t normally see on a sixth-grader.
Mak gave Brock a sad puppy-dog look before strapping on his helmet, banging his head into the locker with a growl, and heading out onto the field. Brock followed and jogged over to where the quarterbacks were. He went through the motions of warming up, throwing to Xaviar, while Asa and Wentzel worked together under the toothy chipmunk grin of Coach Van Kuffler. When the ball Xaviar threw back to Brock went wild, Brock jogged over by the fence to scoop it up. That’s when he saw Coach Hewitt standing on the side of the bleachers talking to not only Coach Spada, but to Laurel’s mom as well. Her hair was pulled up into a pile on top of her head and she wore a baggy Calhoun Football sweatshirt and faded jeans.
Brock’s stomach somersaulted. He already knew he wasn’t going to be first team, or even second team, but he had no idea what other horror was being planned for him. He knew it was something though, without a doubt. He wondered if Laurel had complained to her mother about Brock grabbing her arm. Would she really destroy him over that?
His worst fears were confirmed when Laurel’s mom pointed at him and all three of them looked his way.
82
“Brock!” Coach Hewitt shouted.
Brock clutched his football and jogged toward the three of them, butterflies in his stomach.
Coach Hewitt cupped his hands to shout again. “Coach Van Kuffler!”
Brock’s heart huffed like a panting dog. Van Kuffler scowled and trudged toward them, forcing a smile onto his face that looked like someone getting ready for a dentist’s drill.
“Coach?” Van Kuffler faked admiration for his head coach before nodding politely to Coach Spada and Laurel’s mom.
“Coach Spada wants a word with you and me.” Coach Hewitt turned to the varsity head coach.
Coach Spada gave Laurel’s mom a grim look then pointed at Brock. “You’ll start him this week, Coach. If it doesn’t go well, you can use Asa next week. Keep Wentzel as your backup.”
Coach Van Kuffler’s mouth opened nearly as wide as Brock’s eyes. “Coach, all due respect, Brock doesn’t know the offense. The chances he’s had, well . . . things haven’t gone well.”
“Because you’ve done nothing to help him!” Laurel’s mom put her hands on her hips. Her face twisted up and trembled with rage. “That’s enough of that, Frank. You’ll give him the game plan and Taylor will teach it to him.”
“Me?” Brock couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Van Kuffler blinked and addressed Coach Spada. “Coach? Is this how we do things?”
“I’m sick of this nonsense, Frank.” Coach Spada snarled. “You took what I told you to do and threw it out the window. We’ve got Groton Friday night. They run a 46 Defense and they run it well, but what am I doing? I’m here with you, talking about things I already told you to do. No, this isn’t how we do things, Frank. So you either hear me and get this right, or it’s over. Do I have to explain ‘over’?”
Coach Spada turned to Coach Hewitt. “Buzz, I want a copy of the game plan. Taylor will make sure the new kid knows it and you’ll run those plays and only those plays against Groton. I want the starters in there with him, and I want good play calling. I can’t be there to babysit, but I trust you’ll get this done.”
“Don’t worry, Coach Spada.” Laurel’s mom smiled wickedly. “I’ll be there, and I’m a great babysitter.”
Coach Spada puckered his lips, then huffed. “If the kid looks good, he’ll stay with the first team for the rest of the season. If he chokes, he’s all yours. But he gets a chance.”
Coach Spada turned to Laurel’s mom. “One chance. We all on the same page?”
The adults nodded together. Coach Spada narrowed his eyes at Brock. “And you understand?”
Brock nodded violently.
Coach Spada extended a hand. “Good. Good luck, kid.”
Coach Spada marched off. Laurel’s mom turned to follow him, then stopped, spun around, and leaned close to Coach Van Kuffler so she could whisper. “You messed with the wrong mother, Frank.”
Coach Van Kuffler stuttered, then finally got out his words. “You’re not his mother.”
“No.” Laurel’s mom gave Brock a strange look. “But I’m his friend.”
83
“Dude, how did it happen?” Mak’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Did Coach Spada actually pee on Van Kuffler’s leg? Because that’s what a couple of the guys were saying.”
“Nobody peed on anybody, Mak. That’s crazy.” Brock tried not to giggle at the image. He got on his bike and started pedaling. Mak followed him, catching up and riding without hands so he could gesture as he went.
“But you’re first team! Buddy, it’s a miracle.”
“I am for Groton. I gotta perform.”
“You will. I know it! Man, was it great to see Van Kuffler choking like that during practice, giving you the plays and no more junk. Hey, where you going?”
Brock had taken a turn away from the center of town. “Out to Laurel’s. You can come.”
“Dude, you’re just riding out there? What are you gonna say?”
Brock shrugged without letting go of his handle bars. “I don’t know. Thanks, I guess.”
“Just text her, dude. You ride out there, she might not like it. Maybe her mom did all that on her own.”
“Maybe she did. Then I’ll thank her. I need to know, right?”
“I don’t know about that.” Mak puffed as they pumped up a long slope.
“I do.” Brock said nothing more, but kept on riding, turning off the highway and in between the stone gates.
“I don’t think you can just ride down in here.” Mak followed despite his protests.
“Stop whining.” Brock thought of Laurel’s mom saying they were friends. He set his jaw because he didn’t think Laurel shared her mom’s kind feelings. “I guess maybe it’s Taylor. I mean, I know he liked me. I know he thinks I can play.”
They pulled up to the front entrance and parked their bikes. Brock marched up the steps. Mak followed. Brock looked back. Mak had stopped halfway up. Brock shook his head and rang the bell. Heavy chimes rang from deep inside the house. It wasn’t Laurel who appeared when the door swung open, but her mom.
“Brock. Hi.”
“Hi, Ms. Dahlman. I hope we’re not disturbing you. Um, this is Mak Koletsky.”
“Hello, Mak.” She nodded at Mak and he hustled up the steps and shook her hand.
“I’m first team left tackle.” Mak puffed up his chest. “I got his blind side.”
“But Brock’s a lefty,” she said.
Mak deflated. “Yeah, well, technically, but we’re best friends, so I got his back on the field and off.”
“I bet you do.” She smiled at Mak and turned to Brock. “Taylor won’t be home for another hour, Brock.”
“I came to see Laurel . . . and you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Why did you do it?”
She bit her lower lip and swung the door wide. “Come in.”
They followed her into the massive kitchen. She motioned them to the wooden table tucked into a bay window looking out over the river. Brock had heard it referred to as the breakfast nook.
Laurel’s mom put an opened box of bakery donuts on the table in front of them.
“Milk?” she said.
&nbs
p; “Yes, ma’am!” Mak already had his hands on a powdered jelly, and when he took a bite some of the insides dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“Sure.” Brock reached in and took a glazed, his mouth watering.
Laurel’s mom filled two pint glasses with cold milk, set them down, and took a seat across from them. “Laurel doesn’t like to hear this, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk with her about it.”
“I don’t think she’ll talk to me about anything,” Brock said.
She smiled sadly. “She will. Give her time. She’s worried about me since her father and I got divorced, and what happened with me and your father was a huge disappointment. Sooner or later, though, she’ll realize it had nothing to do with you.”
Brock nodded. “So why are you helping me like this?” Brock asked.
She looked past them, out at the river. “Your father . . . he’s a very unusual person. I’m used to fending people off, not the other way around.”
She looked at Brock now and he saw she was sad. “Then, I saw your mom and I understood. And I respect him.”
She smiled. “I’ve taught my kids—and I believe this with all my heart—that we need to do kind things for people just for the sake of being kind. It’s important. My kids know I was upset by what happened with your dad. My helping you is a great example for them. Kindness. It’s so important.”
Brock still wasn’t sure.
“All this?” She waved her hands and looked around. “It was my father’s. He taught me before anything else that none of this does you a bit of good unless you’re kind. It’s how we live, Brock. And I like you. You’re a great kid. Taylor likes you too, a lot, and he raves about the kind of player you could be.”
Laurel’s mom patted his arm. “And Laurel likes you too. Maybe most of all. You see? What I said to the coaches is true, we are friends.”
Brock swallowed and nodded his head.
She kept looking at him and he looked back and saw that her eyes were exactly like Laurel’s. “This is a tough town, it always has been, but not tougher than me, and I’m happy to help.”
“Thank you again.” Brock wanted to say so much more, but it was all he could muster.
“There is something you need to do, though.” She put a hand on Brock’s shoulder.
“Talk to Laurel?” Brock said.
She chuckled and shook her head, then leaned toward him. “Don’t worry about Laurel. No. What you need to do is go out there on Saturday and light up that scoreboard.”
84
The next week flew by. He and Laurel started talking again. It was just “Hi” at first, then “What’s up?” but that turned into complete sentences with smiles to go along with them. By the end of the week, they were back to being friends. Brock wasn’t sure if they’d be more—maybe they would—but they were friends again, and that sure felt good. Before Brock knew, it was game day.
Since Groton was Calhoun’s biggest rival, the seventh-grade team—along with the youth-league teams and the eighth-grade team—got to play on the varsity field. Calhoun’s sixth-grade youth team won 34–28, and Asa Pagano had four touchdown passes. Brock jogged onto the field with the seventh-grade team, which benefited from fans who stuck around from the morning youth games as well as some early arrivals for the eighth-grade team. The stands were nearly full, but half wore Groton purple.
An army of clouds marched across the sky. The sun shone down, flashing bright between them. A chill wind licked at the nervous sweat on Brock’s upper lip. Cut grass mingled with the smell of hot dogs, Italian sausage, and peppers creeping across the field from the concession stand grill. The toast and peanut butter from breakfast climbed the walls of Brock’s stomach and he fought the urge to throw it up.
After pregame stretching and agilities, Mak slapped him on the back, hard. “Hey, hey, buddy. This is it. This is what it’s all about. Look at them.”
Brock stared over at the purple-and-white players and remembered the story of a Minnesota Vikings defense so ferocious they were called Purple People Eaters.
“What are you thinking?” Mak shook him and peered through the bars in his face mask.
“Just . . . let’s crush them, right?” Brock knew it didn’t come out quite right.
“Well, you’re a quarterback. You don’t have to crush anyone, but I will.” Mak looked at the visiting team and snarled. “Stomp their guts all over this field.”
“Yeah.” Brock slapped him five. “Get ’em, Mak.”
“Oh, I will. You just throw the ball, buddy. Throw the ball like you can.” With a thumbs-up, Mak jogged over to where the other linemen were.
Brock threw the ball. He warmed up with Wentzel and their receivers under the stern eye of Coach Van Kuffler. Wentzel’s passes had an annoying wobble, but he was hitting his receivers. As he had all week, Van Kuffler said almost nothing to Brock, and Brock could only assume that their little truce would end after today. He felt pretty certain that whatever happened in the next two hours would determine which one of them would go and who would stay.
Brock wondered what the fallout would be for him quitting in the middle of the season. Would they let him even try out for the eighth-grade team next year? Brock slapped his own helmet. This was no way to be thinking.
“I can do this.” The words sounded flat, so he said them again, slapping his helmet more forcefully.
Coach Hewitt blew his whistle and they all gathered around him on the sideline.
“You see that crowd?” Coach Hewitt’s eyebrows jumped and he pointed a thick finger at the stands. “This is what Calhoun football is all about. This is why we’re here. Pride. We are Calhoun, and today, you guys are gonna smash it right down Groton’s throats. Bring it in, pride on three . . . One, two, three . . .”
“PRIDE.”
Just that one shout tired Brock out. His limbs trembled. He knew it wasn’t good. He looked up into the stands. His parents sat high up in the back row. They waved down at him. He raised a limp hand and dropped it. He wished his teammates would stop slapping his back. It wasn’t helping.
They took off their helmets for the national anthem. When the song ended, Brock caught some motion in the corner of his eye. He looked toward the fence behind the bench. Someone was waving at him.
Brock blinked and bit hard into his mouthpiece.
85
He raised a hand; this time it wasn’t so limp. He felt a sudden charge of energy at the sight of Laurel, her brother, and her mom. Laurel most of all.
“Go, Brock!” she shouted. Her hair glistened and her mother put a hand on her back.
Brock flushed with pride. With a nod, he jammed the helmet back on his head and turned toward the field. The butterflies still fluttered in his stomach, but his limbs seemed suddenly alive and strong.
Taylor appeared beside Brock. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Brock said, blushing and even more excited because he knew—after the past week of evening whiteboard sessions—that Taylor was his football guardian angel.
Taylor patted Brock’s helmet, then walked over to the coaches. “Hey, guys. Coach Spada let me out of video early so I could help signal in the plays.”
“Great,” Coach Delaney said.
“Nice.” Coach Hewitt looked down at his game notes.
Coach Van Kuffler looked like his head might explode. “We’re good here. I don’t need any help.”
“Yeah, but . . . you know Coach Spada. I kinda gotta do what he says.” Taylor wore a false smile.
“What he says, or what your mommy says?” Coach Van Kuffler’s voice turned nasty.
“Frank. Enough.” Coach Hewitt’s jaw jutted out at Van Kuffler like a warning sign.
“Whatever.” Coach Van Kuffler threw his hands in the air. “You think this kid’s got what it takes? Let’s see. I think he’s a choker.”
The three coaches and Taylor turned to Brock. Brock clenched his teeth and gave the offensive coordinator a nasty stare. Van Kuffler snorted and shook his head
and looked at the field.
Calhoun won the coin toss. Brock was relieved that he’d get to go right out on the field without having to wait for their defense to get the ball back. Brady Calenzo fielded the kickoff and ran the ball back to the thirty. Brock looked up at Coach Van Kuffler. Coach Hewitt stood beside him, waiting and scowling.
“Trips Left 34 Dive.” Coach Van Kuffler’s voice was flat and he didn’t even look at Coach Hewitt.
“Don’t forget to reverse pivot before you hand off,” Taylor said.
Van Kuffler sneered. “You wanna go out there and hold his hand?”
Taylor never stopped smiling. “You wanna win, right, Coach?”
Van Kuffler’s face trembled.
Brock, Mak, and the rest of the first team offense jogged onto the field. Brock called the play in the huddle, went to the line, and remembered to pivot. Calenzo got stuffed for no gain. The Purple People Eaters (Brock couldn’t get that out of his mind) celebrated with howls and high fives.
Brock looked to the sideline. Coach Van Kuffler signaled in a run fake with a short pass to the tight end. He called it and went to the line. The Purple People Eaters growled with hunger. Brock faked the handoff, pulled up to throw, but a defender jumped up in front of the receiver. Brock pulled the ball down and took off. He made three yards before being sandwiched between a linebacker and a defensive end who had apparently been stuffed with concrete.
Brock’s head rang.
He shook it to clear the cobwebs and looked to the sideline. Coach Van Kuffler was already halfway through the signal. Brock didn’t know the formation, just the play. He held up both hands as the play clock ticked down toward zero. Taylor saved the day by repeating the signal. Brock knelt and called the play.
“Spread Right Alaska 99 first sound, ready . . .”
The offense broke the huddle. Brock went to the line. He had no time to check the defense over, but knew what he wanted to do. He could feel the uncertainty in the players around him. Even Mak hadn’t looked him in the eye as he’d called the play. He would go deep, to the outside nine route where Xaviar Archangel, his fastest receiver, would streak toward the end zone along with the other three wide receivers.
