by Lily Cahill
Just then, Coach Prescott strides in, and everyone shuts up and takes a seat. Even Ben. Coach starts talking, which is better than everyone’s chatter and Ben’s frantic stretching. The talking is easier to tune out. I’m not in the mood for some phony pep talk. Nothing he can say will magically make us better players. I stare at the floor and wait for it to be time. Time to trudge onto the field. Time to get this over with.
We shuffle out of the locker room, and we’re jogging because we have to, but there’s no buoyancy in our step. My hand reaches up automatically to slap our team slogan—“Can’t Stop the Stampede”—and I realize with a pang that we didn’t come together for the chant before we left the locker room. How could we have all forgotten? Are there so few of us veterans that it’s not an ingrained tradition anymore? Can a tradition that seemed so deep and permanent just vanish like that? The realization sits uneasy on my shoulders.
The stands are splattered with big chunks of red and white. If you restrict yourself to looking only at the one side of the field, it’d be hard to tell whose turf we’re on. The Utes have feathers in their hair, and they’re jeering us as we jog out onto the field. I try to focus on blue and gold. This is our home advantage, we’re not going to be intimidated just because some University of Utah fans decided they wanted to spend their weekend in a car.
The energy is off right from the start. The fans aren’t as boisterous as they were last game. All of their fears from last year’s National Championship game, all of the off-season wondering and speculating about whether or not we’re going to be any good this year … it’s all but been answered. With a single game, the student body, the town, the whole state have given up on us. Even my own dad doesn’t believe in us.
We punt the ball off to Utah and I sit on the sidelines, with the edge of a finger in my mouth, nervously chewing my nail. A red jersey waves his hand in the air for a fair catch. At least they won’t run it back for a touchdown.
Utah runs the ball, eking it forward and not risking a turnover. They only pick up a few yards at a time, but it’s good enough to earn them a first down. It’s safe, but boring to watch, and I can feel the air being sucked from the stadium. The slow march down the field continues, making it back it to the forty yard line before our defense holds them and they’re forced to kick. They try for a field goal, but the ball takes a bad bounce off the post, and we get the ball back unscathed.
I huddle up with the rest of the offense, and we look to Prescott for the play.
“All right boys, it’s 0-0. We got a chance to get ahead here. Let’s show them who we are. Blue Oyster.”
I look to West. His face is white, and I don’t blame him. It’s a ballsy play. It has Ben shooting down the field like a rocket and West throwing the longest spiral that we have in the playbook. If we pull it off, we’ll have a jolt of confidence and energy. If we don’t … I don’t know. I guess Prescott figures we have the next down to make it up. I hope to God he knows what he’s doing. I ignore my dad’s voice creeping into my brain trying to convince me that Prescott is the doom of us all.
I jog out onto the field, my cleats digging into the turf I know so well. But this all feels so … off. I’m used to fans screaming in the stands, of the sort of energy that makes me feel like a god. Instead, now every step onto the field—surrounded by thousands of eyes judging us, watching for us to fail—it’s like a biting wind that makes me want to hang my head. I fight past the feeling and jut my chin out. I can’t give up. I won’t give up.
We line up, and I block out everything else—the jeers from the Utes, the pressure from the fans, everything. I have to be here, in this moment, ready to play this game with everything I have left.
Reggie snaps the ball back to West. I hit my defender hard and keep the block. West rolls back, giving himself space, and then he lets the ball go. It flies through the air in a perfect arc and I can already tell that it and Ben are on the same trajectory. If he catches the ball, no one will be able to stop him. For all his arrogance and bluster, he is one of the fastest wide receivers I’ve ever witnessed. This might actually work. It might actually ….
A red shirt is tight on Ben, and just as he’s about to pull away, hands grip his shirt, holding him back enough so that the ball just slips through his fingers. A whistle blows.
“Holding. Number 59 on the defense. Ten yard penalty,” the referee announces. All around us, boos and cheers butt up against each other. But I focus on one thing: West got the ball off. He didn’t hesitate. It steels my spine, if only a little.
After that, Coach plays it a little safer. West throws a shovel pass off to a newbie running back, Shane Crews, but Crews chickens out from running it up the center like the play calls for. He tries to take it outside, but runs out of field and ends up out of bounds with a one-yard gain.
“Fuck!” I shout, stalking back to the line for the next play.
I take a deep breath. I’m over-thinking every play. The play’s over, Lotto. Move on to the next one.
Except the next one called makes my stomach flip. This one is all me. If the play goes south, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
It all happens so fast. There’s the snap, and then I’m bolting up the field, running as fast as my legs can take me. I feel the blood pumping through me, my muscles straining and bunching. I push off my defender, and as I’m turning to cut back and catch the ball, I slip on the field. I take a wrong step and feel my balance falter. I catch myself, but too late. The ball bounces off my hands and into the air. I reach my arms out for it, to recover the ball and save the catch, but my defender is back on me and he wants the ball as badly as I do. I dive forward and feel the lung-busting press of two-hundred pounds of muscle as the Ute lands on top of me. The ball falls just out of reach and dies. Incomplete.
By the time the clock winds down to halftime, I’m drenched with sweat and my muscles are burning. The whole team looks like we’ve just been through a week of boot camp, and the game is only half over. We’ve managed to keep the score close, Utah’s up 7-3. It’s not the shellacking we got from Hawaii, but it feels just as disastrous. We’re making the same mistakes we made then, and there’s no sign things will improve.
Technically, anyone could win it, but I’m just not sure we have anything left in us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Riley
WE DRAG OURSELVES DOWN THE tunnel toward the locker room. I have never felt this way before as a Mustang. Sure, we’ve lost games before, but it’s never felt this hopeless.
Even Reggie looks deflated. And West … West looks miserable.
We pile into the locker room, shoulder pads bumping, helmets dangling from our hands. Dimly, I can hear the cheery music of the marching band playing fight songs on the field. At least the spectators will get some entertainment. I’ve felt the weight of their opinions the whole first half. If we lose this game, what will become of the Mustangs?
“Have a seat, boys,” Coach Prescott says, stalking back and forth at the front of the locker room. Most of the team collapses onto the rows of benches, but I lean against the wall. I’m afraid that if I sit, I’ll never get up again.
“Well,” Coach says, pulling off his hat and running his hands through his hair. “That was a great first half.”
A murmur of depressed laughter huffs through the room. “Great” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.
Coach scrubs his hands over his face, looking at us. “Gentlemen, I’m proud of you.”
I shift my shoulders uncomfortably. Proud?
“Yes, proud,” Coach says, answering my unasked question. “When we started working together, I saw a bunch of boys with raw talent, and some skill, but no heart. We’re all here for different reasons. Some of you have scholarships, some of you transferred from other programs … some of you have never even played football before. But here’s the thing we have in common,” Coach says, his voice rough with emotion. “We all are here because we want a chance. A chance to make a change. To be part o
f a team. To prove that we are more than what people think we are.”
Some guys are picking up their heads, the glimmer of determination sparkling in their eyes. Coach continues. “We all made a choice to be on this team, and ride out this season. It was always going to be rocky. It was always going to be rough. I didn’t have to apply for this job. Oh, no, I could be cozy back at my old school, running a winning football program. Do you know why I applied for this job? Do you?”
A couple of guys shake their heads.
“I applied for this job because of you. Because I wanted to work with the kind of young men who would take big chances. And in that way, you have made me proud.”
Ben Mayhew glares at Coach Prescott defiantly, as if refusing to be inspired. “A fat lot of good that will do us,” he says bitterly. “We’re still going to lose.”
“I’m speaking, young man,” Coach says, so calmly and coldly that Ben lowers his head. “But I want y’all to listen to him. Because he’s not wrong. That’s what people will be saying out there in the stadium right now. That’s what the sportscasters are going to be saying tomorrow. They’re going to say that this team was gutted by scandal, and that every single one of you are pale imitations of what the team used to be.”
The room is silent as Coach lets that sink in.
“But that’s not what I see,” he says, his voice rising in tenor. “I see young men who are willing to work hard and surprise everyone—including themselves. I see men who have spent the last few weeks learning the most important lesson you can learn: That if you play like you’re alone out there, you will be. You’ll lose.”
Coach pauses, and I feel alone. I really do.
“But here’s the flip side of that. When we work together, when we play as a team, we can be better than we are alone. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Hawkins, did you pass the ball to Reed when you were being tackled?”
“No,” Hawkins says sullenly. “I didn’t want to lose possession.”
“Are you kidding me, man?” Reed says. “I was right there, I was holding out my hands to you.”
Coach points at Reed. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m going to ask y’all to do something for me, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could do it. You all took a chance on yourselves when you became a Mustang. Now take a chance on each other. I know it feels like a risk,” he says, holding up his hands. “But what do you have to lose?”
I can’t help but think about Lilah. I haven’t given her a chance to explain. I haven’t given myself a chance to think about the offer, and what selling my carvings might mean. Why have I shut down all my chances, trying to convince myself that I have none?
“I want you to go out there,” Coach says, “and play this second half like your lives depend on it. Because they do. I’m not talking about winning or losing or any of that. I’m saying that if you can go out there and believe in each other, we’ve already won.”
With that, Coach strides out of the locker room. He stops just at the entrance, where West is hovering, and says something to our quarterback that makes him breathe deep and stand up straight.
For a moment, we all sit there, not sure how to react. Then Reggie stands up and says, “Can’t stop.”
No one replies. Reggie looks over the team and says again, firmly, “Can’t stop.”
“Won’t stop,” I reply, and Reggie breaks into a grin.
“Can’t stop,” Reggie says, stomping on the floor. “Won’t stop. Don’t stop.”
A few other guys take up the chant. Then everyone is on their feet, faces pale and determined. “Can’t stop, won’t stop, don’t stop. Can’t stop, won’t stop, don’t stop. Can’t stop, won’t stop, don’t stop.”
Reggie jumps up on a bench. “What’re they trying to stop?”
“The Stampede!”
“Who’s gonna stop us?”
“Nobody!”
“Who are we?” Reggie bellows.
“Mustangs!” We shout back.
“Who are we?” Reggie shouts even louder, beating his chest.
“Mustangs!”
“Can’t stop the stampede!”
On cue, all the guys start running in place and slapping the walls, the benches, the lockers. The cacophony is incredible. Reggie stands in the center of it all, basking in the energy we are making together. I can feel it too, the swirling currents of possibility. But at the center of all that possibility, I feel a stone weight trying to drag me down.
What am I doing here? How did I get here? Is this even where I want to be?
One of the assistant coaches taps me on the shoulder. “Riley. Your dad is on the phone.”
“My dad?” The sinking feeling turns to fear. He knows phones are off-limits during a game. So if he called anyway …. “Is everything okay?”
I follow the assistant coach into a small office, where a phone is resting off the hook. “We’re going back out in three minutes,” he says, before closing the door behind me.
“Dad?”
“Riley,” my father says, relief clear in his voice.
“Is everyone okay? Did something happen—”
“Everyone’s fine. I had to talk to you, and I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but Riley, I’m watching this game, and I just feel sick inside.”
“I know, Dad,” I say, collapsing against the cinderblock wall. “I’m fucking up.”
“That’s not it. Riley, it breaks my heart thinking that you don’t know how much I love you.”
The sick ball of failure in my stomach stills. “What?”
“I love you, son, no matter what. I don’t care if you make the NFL. Hell, I’d love to have you back home to work with me on the farm. Or whatever you want. You are my greatest accomplishment, exactly as you are.”
My heart thumps hard in my chest as tears prick my eyes. “Dad.”
“Let me finish. I pushed you toward football because it seemed like a chance at a great life, but if that’s not what you want, son, that’s fine. I will be proud of you, no matter what. I’m always proud of you.”
“Dad,” I say thickly. “This isn’t exactly getting me pumped to go back onto the field.”
He laughs, but I can hear from the wavering in his voice that he’s near tears as well. “Don’t worry about who’s watching or what they’re going to think. Just get out there and have fun with it.”
I look out into the locker room, where the stampede has devolved into a bunch of guys laughing and wrestling. “The coach said we needed to take a chance on each other.”
“I agree with him. The talent is there, Riley. What you do with it is up to you.”
I take a deep breath. “Thanks, Dad. I love you too. Thanks for calling, thanks for … everything.”
I set down the handset, feeling part of my bleak mood lift. My father has always rooted for me, always been my biggest fan. We’ve been talking about the NFL for so long, I guess we both assumed that was the ultimate goal. But I need to stop thinking about the NFL. I can’t control the future. The only thing I can control is what I do, right here, in this moment.
And what I’m going to do is join the stampede.
We emerge out of the locker room and into the tunnel with our spirits high and our energy burning. We’re only one touchdown from pulling ahead. We can do this.
There are the usual VIPs and fans in the tunnel, all dressed in Mustangs gear. My gaze skims over one avid fan, then wrenches back. Was that … Lilah?
I do a double take, still jogging with the team. Then I use one of the moves Coach Prescott taught me, jigging out of line and ducking back before the assistant coach can see me.
Sure enough, it is her. Or is it? This woman is wearing my jersey with a pair of tight jeans painted with the Mustangs logo. The same logo is on her cheek, along with my number. Her mohawk is tied with blue and silver ribbons, and there are three earrings dangling from each ear—an M, an S, and a U.
I wrenched off my helmet to see her better. “I feel like this is som
e weird fantasy.”
“It feels weird to me too.” Under the perfect makeup and the wild hair, her eyes are serious and worried. “But I plan on getting used to it.”
Something painful moves inside me. “I said terrible things to you last night,” I start.
“No, let me go first,” she says, laying a hand on my chest. I can’t feel the pressure through my pads, but I feel it just the same. “I have so much more to apologize for. Riley, I never should have tried to change you. From the very beginning, you’ve been honest about who you are, and you should be proud of everything you’ve accomplished. I let the past screw my head up, and I blamed you for things that were never your fault. Please forgive me.”
“Done,” I say immediately. Her shocked gaze shoots to mine. “I do love surprising you.”
“Well, wait until I’m finished. Because I’m not going to apologize for taking your piece to Marty. I would never sell it without your permission, and I’ll never do anything like that again, but I wanted you to know: You’re talented, Riley. And not just at knocking people down. I needed you to know, whatever happens, that you have so much more potential than I can imagine.”
The ache settles deeper, touching deep inside me. “Lilah—”
“Brulotte. What are you doing?”
I look up to see Coach, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The tunnel is nearly empty as the teams spill out on the field for the second half. “I need one minute,” I say, already knowing it isn’t enough.
“You get out there right now or you’ll have the rest of the season to chat up pretty women.” He nods at Lilah, then adds before he walks away, “I like your hair.”
Lilah tilts her head to the side, showing off the designs etched into the thatch of her scalp. Two rearing Mustangs. I bark out a laugh. The ache inside me is blooming into something warmer, deeper, sweeter than I’d ever imagined. I grab Lilah’s hand, pulling her with me out on to the field.