Page 59 of Home Field Advantage

Do I wanna chance it?

I decide to keep it in my back pocket in case I get desperate, but for now, I’m sticking with Santiago. We line up again, and there’s not even a pretense at being happy we got a first down, but that’s fine; I’m feeling cocky as shit now and I know—Iknow—this is gonna work. I exchange a glance with him, just brief enough to confirm we’re going ahead with the plan, and then we line back up while everyone around me mutters into the wind. I bought us all the yardage I could, but I’m not gonna get away with it twice, so I hope he’s ready to run like hell.

They add one more guy on me, which leaves Santiago practically open. I only gain a few yards this time, but it’s enough to get off a lateral pass and then watch him take off, down, down, over… Holy shit. I keep waiting for the sound of bodies colliding and hitting dirt that never comes, and it isn’t until I hear the crowd going absolutely insane that I realize I’m actually seeing what I thought I saw.

“Touchdown: Gators! Number seventeen, Miguel Santiago, just took it seventy yards into the end zone! Unbelievable!”

Unbelievableisn’t even the word for it. Hot damn. I’m running after him before I even know what I’m doing and wechest-bump right there on the field, everyone getting an eyeful of the fact that we’re clearly on a team here. I’m sure there are a million questions why, but I’m not answering toanyoneright now.

Of course, Seth Mathison flubs the extra point, but it’s tough to say whether that’s intentional or he just sucks that hard. Even when he gives Sanchez an exaggerated wink, I’m still pretty sure it’s a cover.

To the surprise of no one, our defense gets utterly trounced, and by the time I get the ball back, we’re down 7–6. I’m mostly relieved this isn’t gonna be a shutout, but still manage to get another first down by throwing a bullet straight to Santiago. He’s tackled immediately—guess they’re catching on to the fact that practically speaking, I only have one real receiver on this team—but at least we gain some yardage.

Santiago stays on the ground a minute longer than he should, and I know it’s time to give him a break, even if it means burning any shot at another first down. This time, I do follow the playbook, and send a twenty-yard pass down to Sanchez, knowing there’s no chance in hell he’ll catch it and the best I can hope for is that it won’t be intercepted.

It isn’t, but he doesn’t catch it, either, making a big deal of motioning that I threw it out of his reach, even though my seven-year-old cousin sitting in the stands could’ve jumped high enough to grab it.

The crowd groans, and I almost wish I could see Dan’s expression behind his helmet. I guess he’s used to hearing disappointed fans, so maybe this is a nice bit of nostalgia for him.

On the sidelines, the cheerleaders are doing their best to keep the crowd pumped, and I weigh my options. I could run again, but it’s too early in the game to risk a second hit. Returning to Santiago would probably catch them off guard at this point, but I don’t want to risk him getting injured either.

“Walsh, where’s your head at?” Coach snaps me back to attention in the huddle, and whew, he is definitely pissed at me, but really, what’s the point of this? He can tell me to pass to Sawyer or Sanchez or Devlin, but we all know what the result’s gonna be. Or maybe everyone knows but him. Either way, it’s a waste, which means it’s either me or Santiago risking our limbs again. Or maybe we won’t even get that far, if they’re pissed enough to let the rush through to bury my ass in the dirt.

And then, a voice in my ear. “Statue of Liberty. I can do it. I’ll get us to the forty at least.”

It’s Burke. I seek out his dark brown eyes beneath his helmet, and he looks sincere, but maybe he’s just a better actor than the rest of them. “I won’t screw you,” he adds. “I know the guys are… whatever, but my brother’s up there. My mom and pops are up there. I can’t promise you Mathison will make the kick, but I can get us closer to the end zone.”

It’s a ridiculous choice of play at this point in the game, but surprises can only help me, especially if it means gettingsomeone else on my side. “Yeah, all right. Get Coach on board. I don’t think he’s gonna listen to me right now.”

I watch from a few feet away while Burke makes his case to Coach, and it’s clear Sundstrom’s not buying it. So we run yet another play that gives Sanchez a chance to show off how much he sucks before Coach mercifully gives our plan a shot and calls Statue of Liberty. There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes when they land on me while he makes the call. I’m in for some shit later. But for now, I close my eyes and pray I can trust Burke as much as I hope I can. I drop back, fake to Santiago—he’s just the most believable target, for anyone who’s been paying attention—and hand it off. True to Burke’s word, he gets the nine yards we need to go for a field goal, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding since the tail end of my last “Please don’t fuck me over.”

Now it’s up to Mathison, which blows. But whether or not he takes us up to 9–7, everyone, including Terry Lawrence, can see who’s been putting in the work here. My running, throwing, and strategy have all been on display tonight, and while my leadership abilities could probably use some work, I’ve done the best I can. I don’t know how much is left in me, or in Santiago—not without the rest of our team. But I’m going to keep giving it everything I have.

Doesn’t hurt that it brings me a lot of joy to see Amber breaking into a new gleeful cheer and knowing I’m part of why.

I’m grateful my helmet hides that I can’t take my eyes off her when I’m not playing. On a squad full of hot, peppygirls, she got the nicknames Ammo and Loud for a reason. The only thing more powerful than her killer legs is her voice, and every time it cheers my name I want to melt into the grass.

I swig my water as Mathison takes his place on the field, and turn away just before he kicks. I can’t watch him miss again, and my gut says he’s going to. Crowd reaction tells me I’m right, and the scoreboard staying at 7–6 confirms it. God, that kid sucks.

Defense replaces us on the field and I chug my water and let myself watch the cheerleaders launch into a new routine. Amber is flawless, as usual, and when she does a cartwheel without even using her arms, it makes me want to fight every single person who’s ever made her feel like she’s just a short skirt. No chance in hell I could do that shit.

“Walsh!” Coach barks, and I tear my eyes off the squad. “Over here.”

I jog over obediently, knowing I’m about to be ripped a new one. “Hey, Coach.”

“Walsh.”

I tear my helmet off and swipe at my sweaty forehead. “You know they’re throwing this game, right?”

“What are you talking about, Walsh?” We both look at the field, where Zack Sawyer takes a shoulder to the gut and falls on his ass. “That was—that’s not throwing the game.”They’re just badgoes unsaid.

“Not defense,” I clarify, even though I have no idea. “Youreally think Sanchez missed that throw by accident? Did that look out of his range to you?”

“You’re reading into things, Walsh,” says Sundstrom. “And you can’t just pull plays out of your ass to make yourself look good for a scout.”

“Do Ireallyhave to prove to you that I’m here for the team, Coach? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.Everything.I’ve learned every play, including, yeah, Open Sesame. I know every single player on this team’s strengths and weaknesses, every blind spot. Youjustasked me how I was feeling about tonight and here’s my answer: I feel good about it with people I can trust. And I think we can win it with people I trust. So, if you trustme, you’ll let me win this for us.”

“That’s not how this works. Let me talk to the team—”

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