I can’t focus on anything else, even if there’s a big part of me that still feels like an imposter. Mills is suited up as second string, at least. He just looks like any of the other starting guys. Right now, he isn’t riding a bench, so it’s easy for me to fool myself.
When we make our way into the tunnel, I can hear—and feel, yet again—the crowd and the music coming from the marching band’s pit. It rattles through my bones, thrumming down deep in time with my heartbeat. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck, gooseflesh prickles across my arms. I start to rock a little on the balls of my feet because that energy just isn’t going away.
“You ready for this?” Trent asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
I hope so.
“Hell yeah.”
The announcer calls us in, and we jog onto the field. The stadium erupts with noise. There must be thousands of people shouting and hollering and stamping their feet. The stands are awash with Eastshore blue, swallowing little pockets of Alabama red. From down here, I can’t tell if the onlookers are on their feet, or if they just seem that way. A glance at the big screen doesn’t reveal them, though. It pans over us.
I see myself, number 34, and that nervous energy coils into a tight ball before finally exploding. A tremble snakes through me. This is it. This is what it’s like to play college ball. It’s not just a few hundred people watching. It’s not just a sports journalist managing to snap a couple pictures of you.
Right now, it feels like everyone is watching.
Maybe some of my old teammates are in the stands. A couple of them might have made the trek, though I know that’s as unlikely as it is egotistical. But they could be watching on TV, at home or in a bar somewhere. Lydia’s probably watching. She’d find a way to watch, even if she had to stream it on her tablet.
As the national anthem is sung by an Eastshore student, I start to think that maybe even my dad could be watching.
We lose the kick-off, and I’m absolutely ecstatic. I’m put in on the very first play. I stand in my spot in a half-crouch, the tips of my gloved fingers just skimming the freshly mowed grass.
This close, I can hear the QB’s rough voice as he calls the play. I can hear the barks of his offense as they answer him. I can hear our line, taunting theirs. And behind it all, the backbeat of the stadium creates an endless parade of sound bouncing around my helmet.
It’s almost overwhelming, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings and focus on the play.
The ball is snapped, and I run my pattern. I see a hole open up in the left side of the line; the hole the running back is undoubtedly going to vault through. I put on a burst of speed and charge for it, but I’m met by a solid wall of muscle as one of the offensive linemen stops me. He doesn’t hold me—not enough to draw a penalty, anyway—just manages to lock his mass with mine, grinding my momentum to a standstill.
I get a hand on the running back and try to use that to strip the ball, but he tucks it closer. It’s only because of a dive tackle that he’s brought down, but that’s after he gains a few yards.
All right. I can’t stop every drive. I know that. I roll my shoulders and jog to the new line of scrimmage, getting into position again.
But the next drive is almost an exact repeat. The running back goes up the middle this time and picks up the first down, and the whole time I’m being held at bay like a dog on a leash.
When they start the passing plays, I’m virtually useless. And once they get inside the red zone, I’m pulled in favor of more pass coverage. It doesn’t seem to help, because Alabama scores, getting the PAT with ease and putting 7 on the board.
I take my spot on the bench while our offense comes out. I didn’t plan it that way, but I end up right next to Mills.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
I’m probably not that transparent. My excitement has already washed away. It’s replaced by a sense of frustration that’s slowly tightening. One drive isn’t enough to be worried about, but I’m already starting to feel like I’m woefully unprepared.
“Alabama’s got a rock-solid line. They get a lot of their yardage from running plays.”
“Feels like trying to run through a fucking wall,” I say.
He gives me what I can only describe as a sympathetic grin. “Yeah. It’ll feel worse tomorrow.”
The exchange doesn’t exactly fill me with a ton of hope, but the fact that Mills hasn’t completely closed me out after discovering he lost his starting position is encouraging.
The next time our defense takes the field, I try a different tactic. I’m built more for power than finesse, but I do my best to fake out my would-be blocker. It works the first time. I don’t get a perfect tackle, but I manage to trip the runner. His stumble allows him to be tackled by someone else.
But the next time I try something similar, they adapt. It’s lightning fast, and way more advanced than what I’ve seen so far.
Our offense does manage to put up some points, at least. It’s a slow back and forth, and while not every drive ends up getting points on the board, both teams have more successful drives than not. By the third quarter, we’re down 7, and I’m fucking exhausted.
Even with the grueling summer condition and the two-a-days leading up to this game, even with the all-nighters I pulled trying to get in a little more gym time while leaving room to study once school started, I’ve never been this tired. There’s something about a college game that’s just heads and shoulders above anything else I’ve ever done, and it’s taking a toll on me.
But I do my best to hunker down. The last thing I want is for a ball carrier to blow past me. If I can’t make them lose yards, at the very least I can keep them from getting a breakaway.
On 3rd and 4, though, Oakley gets into the best position to stop the running back. I see him grab the guy, even as I have a lineman in my face. The running back manages his momentum and tries hard to get the first down, but Oakley twists and does everything in his power to stop him.
He does, but not before I hear something snap.
I wince, feeling that one deep in my bones. When the play is called dead, Oakley doesn’t get up. He just sits on the field, holding his ankle. Fuck. He probably snapped a tendon trying to pull off that move.
Anderson and I get our arms underneath his and help lift him to his feet. The team medic meets us at the sidelines, and Oakley is taken off the field to the sound of applause. It’s fourth down now, and Alabama is bringing out their special teams. There’s no way Oakley will be able to go back out there, though, even if an offensive drive stands between us and another shot at defense.
As I wait on the bench, I become cautiously hopeful. Mills’ expression only changes when he’s reacting to a play—like the near-interception on third and long—but I’m probably nervous enough for the both of us.
Once Alabama punts it away, I’m leaning forward on the bench, waiting to see what Coach Garvey will say.
“Mills, take Oakley’s spot.”
It’s not said with any fanfare, but I can’t help but grin. All of the frustration from earlier is suddenly tamped down, and my excitement surges again. Mills puts on his helmet, looking like a soldier who’s just doing his duty, but I can see the subtle change in him. His shoulders aren’t as tense and his head is held a little higher.
Of course, there isn’t any kind of alchemy happening when we both take the field. The first few plays go the same as they have all game. The whole first drive is that way, even if we force them to go for the field goal.
Mills and I play hard, but their offensive line is right there, keeping us back from their ball carriers. All it takes is one really good play, though, and even as time winds down in the fourth quarter, I know we’ve got a chance. The two-minute warning hasn’t been called yet. We’re trailing by 7 again. If we can just halt their momentum—or better yet, bowl them over—we’ll have a chance.
Alabama goes for a passing play, though, and my hop
es dwindle a bit. Their QB has done a good job of getting rid of the ball quickly.
Mills and I are the only linebackers left a few feet behind the line. He glances at me, dipping his head. The sun hits his helmet, glinting off the plastic. When he tilts his head back up, I can see a fierce determination in his eyes.
The ball is snapped, and I see Mills swing outside. This is a play we ran during practice. The one that had us joking about shitty ‘90s movies. Now’s our chance to put it into practice where it counts, and I’ve got just enough hope left that I’m convinced we can pull it off.
I cut past the defenders, making it look like I’m running interference on a slant play. The QB falls back and looks for a receiver and I swing inside, getting past the line of blockers. One of them tries to break free and stop me, but they’re too late.
Mills is already there.
The QB doesn’t even see him coming.
His arm is pulled back mid throw, and Mills strips it the rest of the way. My gaze seizes on it, and before I can think about the fact that I’m about to get trampled, I dive. My gloves connect with the ball and I pull it into myself before I hit the ground hard.
The whistle blares repeatedly. I can feel a knee jabbing into my back, the weight of some guy on top of me. I don’t let go of the ball even as he tries to wrestle it away from me. I don’t let go until the ref gets in between us.
When I lift my head, I don’t see a little yellow flag in front of my face. I see cleats rising a few inches off the ground. Someone’s jumping. And shouting.
The whole stadium is shouting, and when a strong hand reaches down and helps me to my feet, I can only guess that we have possession of the ball. A slow grin spreads across my face, and I look to see who helped me up. Mills stands in front of me, his eyes alight, and he uses his leverage to pull me to him.
We bump pads and helmets, he grabs me in a bro-hug, and still my heart races.
“We better pick out that name quick,” he says, practically having to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd. “Gotta have something to tell the journalists.”
I laugh at that, and Mills has his arm slung around my shoulders as we head back to the bench to let the offense capitalize on our gain. I know it doesn’t mean anything. Just one athlete congratulating another.
But somewhere deep inside, this affects me more than anything else that’s happened today.
11
Dante
In the last two minutes of the game, our offense went on to close the gap, and we won by a field goal in OT.
I always forget how centralized small Eastshore is, but I was reminded when we walked out of the locker room a couple hours after the game.
University Road was packed with people. Not just students and alumni who’d been at the game, but others who made their way downtown to support us. We were driven—with a police escort, no less—to the main campus, and paraded out in front of a waiting crowd. They had us stand in front of a big, bronze statue of a tiger, and we were subjected to photos, inquiries from student journalists, and questions from fans.
Things didn’t really wind down until 9 PM, at which point we ended up heading to The Top for some celebratory burgers. Ben kept the place mostly exclusive, packed end to end with football players who were wild and rowdy. It was a massacre. We probably ran the place out of beef and chicken wings.
Not to mention beer. Even though the freshmen didn’t partake, the guys drained enough pitchers to fill Holden Lake.
By eleven, it seems like I’m one of the last guys here who isn’t fall-down drunk. Me, the young players, and Erickson.
As the others start their too-loud debates and shows of strength and drunken agility, Erickson and I talk about Alabama’s offensive line. I tells him about my experience with them the past few years—how I messed up my shoulder trying to drive through their solid wall—and give him a few pointers.
When Sommers falls out of his chair and almost onto Erickson’s lap, we decide to get a little distance from the group and take opposite sides at an air hockey table. A couple weeks ago, I would’ve expected any competition between Erickson and I to be the tooth-and-nail kind, with each of us clawing to get the upper hand.
Instead, we just play a friendly game.
It’s pretty nice, actually. We’re competing, sure. But I don’t feel that irrational surge of anger when he slips the puck past me. I don’t retaliate by slamming it into his boards.
I can just play a regular game like a regular person; not like a person who’s got too much on the line.
For one day, I forget about everything that’s waiting for me at home. I forget about the pressure of school and football and everything else. I just let myself enjoy hanging out with someone who seems like a pretty cool guy, even if he comes from a totally different world.
And because the other guys are still carrying on and don’t seem to miss us at all, we decide to head into the adjoining billiards room and play a game there.
It’s not… quiet, exactly, but the sound of drunken football players doesn’t bounce off the walls as much as it does in the main bar.
“You wanna break?” he asks.
I rack up the balls, since some jackass left them scattered all over the table. They clink together as I align them dead center on the far end of the table. Erickson hands me a pool cue, and I can see the end is already smeared in blue chalk.
I set the cue ball, and shoot a breaking shot. Balls scatter, and one of the striped ones sinks in the right corner pocket, marking those as mine for the rest of the game.
“You have any family in the stands today? I saw Trent bailed early to hang out with his folks.”
I stiffen, but play it off as just sizing up my shot. The stick slides over the bridge I’ve made with my fingers, and I strike the ball. It bounces, shying away from the pocket.
“Nah. They’ve got better things to do.”
I wish I could say I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have them at my games, but I can. When my dad was alive, both of my parents came to my games. Every single one of them. With him gone, my mom doesn’t have enough free time for her own life, let alone mine.
That’s what makes the present so shitty.
Erickson grabs his own stick and fishes for a shot. Right now, it’s easy enough to poach without much effort. He sinks one of his solid colored balls into the side pocket, and lines up for another.
“What about you?” I ask, more to make conversation than anything else.
“They’ve got better things to do, too,” he says, and the smile he gives me is the fakest one I’ve ever seen from him.
His dimples don’t even show.
I guess family’s a sore subject for him, too. I’m a little surprised, to be honest. I figured a rich boy’s got to have people fawning all over him; people who could afford to fly down from Connecticut and probably rent out the one box in the whole stadium.
But I guess money doesn’t make you immune to a complicated family.
“Shit,” Erickson says suddenly, even though he sinks another ball.
I look up at him, and he grins at me. A weird sensation passes over me, and I get a little light-headed. It’s probably just the beer, though. These nights at The Top are the only times I drink anymore, even if I’ve only had a couple glasses.
Mostly because Sommers wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone.
“We never set a wager.”
My brow arches, and a slow smirk crosses my lips. “A wager, huh? All right, Thor. What are you going to give me when I beat you?”
He stares at me, but I can see a bit of heat flush in his cheeks.
“Really? That’s the best name you can come up with, huh?”
I shrug. “Are you really going to complain about being compared to a Norse god?”
His blush deepens. He leans over the table, turning his head away from me as he takes his shot. He misses terribly, and I hear his mumbled, “No.”
I flash him a grin and look for my ow
n shot, circling around him. He taps his chin as if he’s deep in thought, and the next couple turns pass with neither of us making much headway, and Erickson just rambling on about all of the things he could bet. Laundry duty—something none of us have to do anyway, thank God—first dibs at the gym, meals, drinks, stupid-ass pranks.
I throw in a few suggestions of my own as we start clearing the table. But there comes a point where we can’t really one-up each other anymore. It’s too hard to make shots without concentrating. Erickson has the edge on me since he’s only drinking Coke, so I have to stalk all the way around the table to line up the perfect shot.
Then again, once I sink my third-to-last striped ball, he’s left with absolute shit to shoot from.
“No shame in forfeiting right now. You’ll save us both some time,” I tease.
“Fuck that. If you want to win, you’re going to have to take it from me.”
I snort. “And what am I winning, again?”
“Something,” he says distractedly.
Which means he doesn’t know, since we still haven’t decided.
He comes over to my side of the table, and I see him eye up a difficult shot. I have no idea how he’s even going to be able to hit it properly, but he surprises me by leaning halfway on the table. I start laughing at the picture of this huge guy poised on the edge of a pool table like a lounge singer on a piano, but my laughing chokes off when he leans toward me.
He’s just reaching for a shot, and he’s not even that close. It’s not like he’s even touching me. But I can feel the barest hint of his breath against my neck before he holds it to concentrate. I can feel the heat of his body, smell the light scent of soap and aftershave.
I’m around guys all the time. Guys who are half-naked and up in my face more intentionally than this. It shouldn’t affect me at all.
False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) Page 6
