Page 57 of Home Field Advantage

I do know what it feels like to stab the shit out of a pile of green beans, but it’s not as satisfying as you might think.

I’m finishing my food in silence when I feel a kick in my foot, too pointed not to be intentional. I look up, ready to glare daggers at the offender, only to see Miguel trying to catch my eye. He gives the slightest shift of his chin downward, and I realize he’s trying to tell me to pull my phone out of my bag—a strictly verboten move, but one I can probably get away with since Coach is flirting with Devlin’s mom.

I slip my phone out as quickly and quietly as I can and check my texts. There’re just two words:Open Sesame.

The words tug at a memory from my days of studying the playbook this past summer like it held all the answers for the ACTs. I was obsessed, committing every single word of it to memory, even the plays that came with notations that they were almost never used.

Plays like Open Sesame, which is basically just a rushing touchdown, but hasn’t been part of Atherton’s playbook in forever; they haven’t had a QB who was a solid runner in the last decade, and they haven’t exactly been scrambling to change it up for the one they’ve got now. Icouldpull it off, but it meanshaving a receiver to work with, and I guess this is Miguel offering himself up.

Can I trust him? Or is this just more fuckery?

I think back to that night at Gutter Kittens, to our conversation in the nature preserve, to Miguel telling me this morning that he wants to help, and I decide trusting him is the best chance I’ve got. I give him a quick nod, then slip my phone back into my bag before we can get caught. It’s just one idea, one play, but God, it would feel good to be able to show off what I can do to the scout, just once.

And yeah, okay, it’ll feel good to stick it to everyone else, just once.

When I turn back to my food, it’s nice to find that for the first time all day, I have an appetite.

I’ve been so distracted by everything that it isn’t until I’m alone in the locker room, tightening up my bun, that I realize I haven’t heard from Sage and Morgan since early this morning. Most game days they send me a selfie of the two of them with “Go Jack!” dancing somewhere on the screen in flashing or vibrating letters. The first time, they even sent a picture of cupcakes with Gator-green icing Sage had made and pipedJs and footballs onto. (They also sent videos of our friends eating them and sticking out green tongues, along withSorry—cupcakes stay inside city limits, because they suck, but even that made me laugh.)

Today… nothing.

The elastic around my hair makes a satisfying sound as it snaps, and then, as if thinking about them conjured it up, there’s a text from Morgan:Good luck tonight!!

A few seconds later, Sage adds,Oh yeah! Good luck!

Okay, not loving being an afterthought, and a text is pretty weak for them, especially since they know it’s my biggest game so far, but it’s something. They haven’t forgotten about me. They’re still going to welcome me home with open arms.

I exhale deeply.

So many things to stress about. So many questions. So many people caught up in this mess.

At least I know not to bother looking for texts from my brothers.

I look into the mirror and slap my cheek so hard, it immediately flushes. “Stop being so fucking emo, Walsh,” I order myself, because there’s no tough-talking coach around me to do it. The pep talks happen in the guys’ locker room, and shockingly, I’ve not been invited. Of course, they pretend the weak-ass minute on the field is the real deal, but I know where the actual coaching is happening.

I slap my other cheek, hard, and put on my helmet, just in time to hear us being announced onto the field.

Naturally, they wouldn’t bother waiting until I was ready. Irush to catch up with the flood of bulky yellow shoulders and bright green numbers, just barely emerging at the tail end of them.

And then. A rush of volume.

Applause. Whistling. Screaming. The homecoming crowd is officially in town.

Except.

“Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!”

The fuck?

I peel off my helmet and look up into the stands, immediately regretting removing my protective headgear when I feel an unfamiliar prickle at my eyes.

They’re here. Sage and Morgan, and what looks like an entire bus full of old friends I’ve barely kept in touch with. My parents and brothers. Cousins.Grandparents.

Holy shit. I have a fuckingcheering section.

I have never, ever had a cheering section. And with so many people in the stands who don’t know the politics of treating me like a human person at this school, their cheering is infectious. Contagious. Strangers who haven’t been here in months or years are picking up the chant of my name and all I can think isPlease listen to this, Terry Lawrence. Please, when you see my entire team throw me under the bus, remember this moment that proved that out there in the world are people who want me to succeed.

And because I am a stupid fool with a stupid heart, I hazarda quick look at Amber, who doesn’t seem surprised at any of this. Who looks thrilled and… accomplished.

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