Page 29 of Game Face

Whiskey’s face is painted for war, dark lines dripping from his eyes down his jawlines. His face matches the hurt he’s ready to give anyone who gets near me or Bryce tonight. Nobody’s getting through him.

“You’ve sweat on that field, put in the work, grinded your asses off for this moment. Right now!”

Whiskey starts to clap, and a few of the O-linemen nod their heads and shout, “Yes!”

“I tell you, in all my years, I’ve never had a team more ready than you are right now. Hungrier. More deserving. I feel it in the air. Can you?”

“Yes, Coach!” The room thunders with our united voice.

“Remember this feeling, gentlemen. Remember how your hearts feel. That burn in your legs. The taste you have for blood. Smell it. Can you smell it?”

“Yes, Coach!”

“Oh, I know you do! It’s all right there for you. This game wants you to take it. It’s yours to win. Those guys over there?” He points to the north end of the room, where the visitor’s locker room rests beyond layers of brick and turf and glass and noise.

“Those guys think they can steal it from you!”

“No, Coach!”

“Yeah, that’s what I think too. They’re weak. They ain’t ready for this!”

Coach begins to clap, and Whiskey steps into the center of the room to join him. I move in next, along with Keaton, our top receiver, and Deacon, our center. Captains—seniors. Our year. The last first game of my college career. It hits me in the chest all at once, but the feeling isn’t like yesterday—it’s not sentimental. It’s war. Testosterone-fueled war. And there will be no prisoners.

Coach nods to me to take over, and my chest swells.

“Who are we?” My voice booms, the gravely howl coming from somewhere deep inside me.

“Wildcats!”

“I said, who are we?”

“Wildcats!”

I lean forward and pound on the wooden bench this program keeps around for this very reason. Hands join in, the storm growing in strength as we pound the wood, the room vibrating with our aggression—with our heart for this game. With our need to win.

“One—two—three!” I count off, ready for it.

“Bear down!”

We rush from the locker room down the concrete corridor, the tight space echoing the thunder of our feet and the yowls from our mouths. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and chemicals from the fireworks leaks into the hallway and I breathe it in, letting it mentally transport me to every time before.

Twenty-nine days.

Three years of this tunnel.

My last year on this field.

My final first game here, in this uniform, wearing the same number as the man I grew up admiring—the same 13 that Reed is wearing out on the sidelines as he rallies our student section before we take the field.

One moment. This is it, and I’m going to be present for every single breath of it.

The team rushes out in front of us as I walk to the edge of the tunnel with my three co-captains, our hands linked, the feel of magic in our veins.

“Take it in, boys,” I shout.

And we all do. Looking around as the crowd roars, the red and blue pompoms flickering against the stadium lights on either side of us as we step onto the field.

“Welcome to Wildcat Country!” The announcer’s words are the signal, and the four of us drop hands and begin our slow run through the two lines of boosters, alumni, former players, redshirted freshmen, and cheerleaders.

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