Page 63 of Home Game

“We don’t need fire to change this field. We need to show it how footballshouldbe played. That’s not the easy way, where teams come in here and are awed by the greatness of the facility, by the slickness of the turf, the bright lights of that big-ass scoreboard out there.” I gesture out the right side windows toward the field, and a few of the guys chuckle, others begin to clap loudly.

“We are going to intimidate this team from West Ridge by scoring on our opening drive. And they’ll remember us because of the way our defense forces them to go three and out. And when that scoreboard hits numbers it’s never shown before, that’s how we’ll make our presence known. They may be playing in Coolidge’s house tonight, but they’re playingourgame. And there ain’tnobodywho plays our game better! Nobody!”

My hand slaps down on the seat to my right, and the guys pound their fists into theirs, slapping the vinyl and howling like rabid dogs ready to sink their teeth into fresh meat. Coach Watts meets my gaze over our now riled-up team, and he gives me a faint smirk and a nod. This team is fully mine now. And thatrecord Reed Johnson holds? I’m taking it here—tonight. I not only have to, but I alsowantto.

It takes us several minutes to clear out from the bus. Most of our gear is housed underneath, with the rest of it in the booster trailer parked beside us. We were able to get two of our student team managers out of class early, but it’s still too much for just two of them to carry out to the field alone, so I whistle to get Whiskey and Jody’s attention and wave them over to the trailer to help me carry the rest of our gear to the sidelines.

The cameras and closed circuit equipment are the most important, and I let Whiskey handle the large screen our offensive coach uses on the sidelines to walk us through the last set of downs. Jody joins our two managers at the top of the bleachers, leaving them to set up the cameras on top of the press box while Whiskey and I get the electricity run across the track to power up the screen.

“I don’t know if we can leave this out here like this, man,” Whiskey says once we finish plugging everything in.

I glance around the empty field, both sides set up with water and the training tables. We’ll be out here running drills and warmups before the other team shows up, but it’s not them he’s worried about.

Pulling my phone from the pocket of my joggers, I check the time just as the bell dings across campus, alerting students to switch classes. I glance up to meet Whiskey’s stare, and he lifts a brow.

“You really think they’d mess with our shit?” I ask, scanning the campus beyond the field, hundreds of students spilling out from doors and into hallways. A few Coolidge jerseys stand out amongst the crowd. I wonder if they’ll show up to the game tonight and sit on the West Ridge side?

“I’ll hang out here. You go on and get dressed out. Your arm is more important than my legs anyway. Let’s get you warmand used to this field.” Whiskey sits on the tabletop, next to our monitor, and I immediately inspect the structural integrity of the folding table legs.

“I’m notthatheavy, fuck shit,” he says, pushing me back a few steps with a palm to my chest.

I chuckle and shake my head, eyes still on the flimsy metal legs that seem to be sinking into the turf.

“I don’t know, man. If things start to go, you save that TV.” I point to our monitor.

“I’ll save my dick,” he throws back, grabbing his crotch, then flipping me off before laughing like some wild beast in an Irish pub.

I roll my eyes and wave him off as I head across the track to meet Jody. At least he’s hyped for this game.

Jody and I jog toward the practice gym, where the Coolidge athletic director is holding a door open for us to their spare locker room area. This space is used for tournaments as well as the dance students for their fall and spring showcases; at least, that’s what Peyton told me. It’s a pretty blank canvas inside, but that’s better than having to walk into a space dominated by Coolidge trophies and state championship banners. The only thing ready to greet us in here is a rolling whiteboard that looks like it was borrowed from a science class. There are faint chemical formulas scribbled in the center, the board used so much it no longer handles being erased. Good thing Coach Watts isn’t big on drawing plays. He trained us to visualize during camp.

I find my gear bag parked on a bench at the end of the first row of lockers. It’s not a very team-oriented space, the rows close together with narrow benches. I change out of my travel clothes and am squeezing my way into my pads when Whiskey finally comes in. He plops down on the bench, taking up most of it,which is fine since I’m just trying to get my shoulder pads on right now.

“Hey, can you shove the right shoulder pad in?” I take a knee next to him as he slowly rotates to face me. He’s barely halfway around when enough of his face comes into view.

“Whisk, what the fuck?” I jump to my feet, his entire right side covered in thick, blue paint. It’s dripping from his hair, down his shaggy beard, and into the collar of his black practice shirt. His maroon pants are splattered.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” he says, his voice menacingly low.

“I gotta tell Coach,” I say, gritting my teeth and moving past him. He snags the back of my jersey before I can get away, though, and I fall back a step, crashing into the empty locker next to him.

His eyes drill into mine, the white part red with hate. His jaw cracks as he shifts his bottom teeth from one side to the other, as if he’s sharpening his molars while at the same time breaking them on one another.

“Whisk, we can’t let this go. We gotta tell Coach.”

His gaze drops, but only an inch or two.

“This ain’t about school rules and shit, Wyatt. That fucker was my friend. I did him favors. I kept him from getting his ass flattened. I kept my mouth shut when he stepped out on Peyt.” He glances up at me, his eyes even redder now.

“Bryce do this to you?”

My chest is growing hot, and my pulse has been racing since we got off the bus. But to hear Whiskey admit to covering up for that asshole when he was unfaithful to Peyton shifts my rage into a new gear.

The clomp of cleats on concrete filters behind me, and I shift my body, leaning one arm on the locker while resting my foot onthe bench in an effort to shield Whiskey’s appearance from the others.

“Yo, you comin’ Wyatt?” I hear Anthony ask.

“Yeah, be right out!” I hold still, waiting for the sound of the door closing. There are a few more bodies shuffling around the space, and I haven’t seen Coach walk by yet, so I’m sure he’s still talking with the assistants in the guest office.

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