Page 84 of Home Game

My dad got the superintendent on his side with a lot of assurances that things like fires and desert parties would stop. I have my doubts about the partying part. I don’t think adults can control that, and given the stories I’ve heard my father tell—and my grandpa, for that matter—about post-game desert parties out here, that tradition is pretty entrenched.

This is our time to be young and stupid, as my mom always says. Just maybe a touch less stupid.

Moving forward, I think a standard of conduct might have been set that night my dad called everyone to the home stands. Wyatt didn’t tell me the details. He said he didn’t want me to stress out and called himself a corny optimist. But my dad told me enough. Apparently, Wyatt made a grand speech, and the fact my dad said he was proud of him feels like a miracle. When I tell my dad I’ve decided to go to Arizona in Tucson, that should enshrine Wyatt in his eyes for a lifetime.

I’m not doing it solely to follow a boy to college. If anything, I like to think Wyatt is going to commit to Arizona for me. Two more D1 offers rolled in for him this week, both impressive schools in the Midwest. Powerhouses. But something about the way this season has unfolded—the way it changed this town and changed me, has tethered me to it—and I want to remain close.

The shrinking time I have left with my grandpa has something to do with it, too. He isn’t the healthiest fool on the planet, though he keeps defying odds—and strokes. But I’d miss the ability to drive home after a bad day and sit on the porch with him. There are benefits to living ninety minutes from home. To attending yet another school where the Johnson name carries weight.

I want to learn more from my mom, too, and maybe build on her dream with one of my own. I have no desire to shovel shit as much as she does, but the way she helps families with children on the autism spectrum navigate a complicated system intrigues me. It seems rewarding, yes, but also so damn necessary. That’s what I want out of life—to matter beyond myself.

And if a certain boy happens to be in the place where I do that, well . . .

The pre-game clock behind me is now under three minutes. The band wraps the final run-through of the fight song—for now—and we all get a short break before locking in for the first high school game I remember actually being nervous for.

“Is it bad that I’m rooting for your boyfriend’s team?” Tasha says, her hand on my shoulder as we weave our way through the crowd to make one last stop in the restroom.

As soon as we duck through the ladies’ room door, I glance around to make sure we’re semi-alone, then lift the bottom of my form-fitted Bears sweater to show off the maroon Vista practice jersey I stole from Wyatt.

“You rebel,” Tasha teases.

When the bathroom door opens, I shift quickly and stuff my sweater back into my waistband. It’s only a group of younger classmen trying to sneak quick puffs off the same vape pen. I’m about to lecture them when Tasha asks for a hit, too, so instead, I roll my eyes and tell my friend I’ll meet her outside.

The thunder of the drumline reverberates off the building and the nearby stands, so I push up on my toes and scan the dark open space between the locker room and the field where the players are piling up. When Tasha comes out, I tug her sleeve and urge her to jog back to the track with me so we can grab our poms and head out to the field. It’s all starting to hit me how few of these moments we have left, and while I spent so many games complaining about forming a tunnel for the team to run through, it turns out I’m going to miss it. Sure, they do the same at the university, but that’s the thing—it’s at a university. The smallness will be gone. The personal touch. The hometown flavor of things that are not quite perfect, which somehow makes everything even more so, like the crooked letters someone painted on the paper spelling out CHS Bears, or the way our cheer squad is uneven in height and numbers, so we can never hold the banner up quite right.

These imperfect perfects. Three more games, then playoffs, and that’s it for me. All the more reason to stay close. To come back.

Lexi sits on my shoulders while a younger cheerleader, McKenna, balances on Tasha’s, and we help steady the banner as the drumline approaches. Our home stands are overcrowded, fans standing along the fence line and on top of trucks and cars across the street just to get a glimpse of kickoff. Everyone’s eyes are on us, and this hand-drawn banner and the team pooling up on the other side about to break through.

But not me. My attention is across the field, on the six-foot-plus dark-haired dream throwing passes along the sideline to keep his arm warm. His helmet by his feet, he barely strides as he slings ball after ball to his assistant coach. His focus is unwavering, and his body is ready for every hurdle and hit coming for him. He promised it was.

Our team bursts through the tunnel, Bryce and a few of the other seniors racing across the field with the large flags spelling out CHS. One of the booster parents takes them over and plants them into the stands near the end of the home bleachers, and my dad jogs along the field behind his team.How many times has he run that same path? Sure, it’s different grass. But the spot is the same.

Within seconds, the crowd falls silent as our band plays the national anthem and we all face the bright new flag that hangs just to the right of the scoreboard. The flag was a gift from the class the year before, our previous one retired and donated to the local veterans’ retirement home where it is on display behind glass.

“I’m nervous,” Tasha says, briefly linking our arms.

“I want to vomit,” I laugh out. I’m not sure which I’m more anxious over, Wyatt doing well or my dad getting a win. I wish ties were a thing out here. Never have been in this town, though, so I’m going to have to find a way to survive the next two and a half hours.

My poms are up for kickoff, and one of the Vista players manages to run the ball back to the fifty-yard line. I start to jump in place but quickly quiet my heels, not wanting to show my true feelings on the wrong side of the stadium.

Any hope I had for a Vista blowout is dashed within minutes as Wyatt is able to get the ball fifteen yards before running out of downs and our guys force a kick. The play goes on like this for the entire first quarter, the score by the second three to three. Our kickers are the only stars on the field it seems. Well, and both of our defenses, I suppose.

With thirty seconds on the clock before the half, Vista gets the ball back on a fumble, and Wyatt rushes onto the field, putting his helmet on as his team huddles around him. They break fast, and I’m sure I imagine it, but I swear Wyatt looks right at me as he moves into position.

“I love you,” I say silently, not wanting to be heard by my friends—by anyone. I just wanted to put it into the universe, to feel how the words felt on my lips. I smile because they felt nice.

“Blue, thirty-three, blue, thirty-three!” Wyatt backs up to take the ball from the shotgun, and it zings into his hands a heartbeat later.

His feet work to find the pocket, the Coolidge offense coming for him like rabid animals out for blood, and eventually, he has to spin out and rush to the sideline. He’s able to pick up seven yards and get out of bounds, but now he’s left with twenty seconds to make it down the field.

“Let’s get some defense, guys,” Coach Nelson shouts through her bullhorn, snapping my mind back to reality.

I count down for our cheer, and we begin shouting words I don’t feel in my gut at all. I don’t want the defense to succeed. I don’t want anyone to “push them back,” especially not “wayyyyyback.” Turns out Wyatt doesn’t want that either, finding an open receiver about twenty yards down the field andputting the ball right in his hands. That guy manages to get out of bounds with twelve seconds left. Meanwhile, my body sways side to side, poms banging on my hips then clapping above my head as we lead the crowd into chants of defense. The play goes off behind me, and I crane my neck to see, but there are too many players and fellow cheerleaders in my way. When the Vista band sounds off with their fight song, I know in my gut that Wyatt found a way in, and it’s confirmed when the scoreboard clock runs down to zero and the score changes to ten to three.

I rush over to the small bench where we keep our gear and water bottles to get myself a drink. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the Vista band has stopped playing. And when the quiet sweeping across our fans in the stands washes past me, my heart sinks into my gut.

“What’s wrong?” I step up on the bench to look out on the field.

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