by Tim Green
Players and coaches all around Brock moaned. Mak gave Brock a knowing look and took a swig from the cup of Gatorade he’d served himself from the drink table. Moravia scored four plays later.
Coach Hewitt went ballistic. He stomped up and down the Calhoun sideline, popping his players’ helmets with an open hand, warning them to wake up. Moravia kicked off again. Brady muffed it, but dove on the ball himself this time. At least Calhoun had possession.
Mak shook his head, then spoke in a low tone to Brock. “Hate to say it, but they deserve this . . . suspending me? I would have been blocking the guy who made Brady fumble on that first turnover. They should have suspended Wentzel, not me.”
“Well, maybe they’ll get it together.” Brock tried to sound optimistic, but secretly, he didn’t want things to go well without him or Mak in there.
Wally Van Kuffler took the snap and dropped back. The guy replacing Mak whiffed on his block and Wally got smashed to the turf. The Moravia crowd went wild, sounding air horns and rattling coffee cans full of coins amid the howling. Brock tried hard not to enjoy Wally’s pain. Wally got up slow and returned to the huddle where his head jerked back and forth, obviously chewing out Mak’s replacement.
“Ugly.” Mak cracked his knuckles and fought back a smile.
The next play was a pass as well. Moravia blitzed. Mak’s replacement failed again, and Wally just threw the ball over his receiver’s head and out of bounds before getting blasted. Mak choked off a laugh and pretended to cough. No one could hear anyway. The home crowd unleashed a storm of bloodthirsty cheers.
On third down, with seventeen yards to go, everyone knew it had to be another pass. Brock gripped the edge of the bench, uncertain how he felt.
Wally Van Kuffler took the snap, dropped back, and heaved the ball up into the air.
Three people jumped for it; two were Moravia defenders.
61
As Wally Van Kuffler’s pass wobbled down from the sky like a busted flying saucer, the two Moravia defenders smashed into each other and dropped to the turf. The ball bounced off one of their helmets, up into the air and into the arms of Brady Calenzo, the Calhoun running back. Surprised by the ball, Calenzo turned and ran for his life. Because the rest of the defense had stopped to watch, no one could catch Calenzo and he scored. The Moravia crowd got quiet, but the visitors’ stands took their turn making noise and everyone on the Calhoun sideline jumped in the air. Everyone but Mak and Brock, who blinked at each other in disbelief before belting out some halfhearted cheers.
“Can you believe the luck?” Mak spoke softly between twisted lips.
Brock shook his head. “No way.”
It was almost scary. After that, everything that could go wrong for Moravia, did. When they scored, a holding penalty brought it back and the next play they fumbled. Driving for another touchdown just before halftime, their runner failed to get out of bounds on the two-yard line and the clock ran out.
On the other hand, everything that could possibly go right for Calhoun did. If a Calhoun player fumbled the ball, it would end up in another Calhoun player’s hands. When Wally threw an errant pass into the arms of a Moravia defender, it would bounce off his pads. When Wally threw an interception, the defender ran it back, heading in for a score. Then, on the two-yard line, Mak’s backup stumbled, fell, and knocked into the defender so that he fumbled the ball. It bounced across the goal line and out of bounds, giving the ball back to Calhoun. A short screen pass by Wally resulted in a touchdown on the very next play.
“I’d rather be lucky than good, that’s what my dad says.” Mak rubbed a hand over his face and slung an arm around Brock’s shoulders as the final whistle sounded and Calhoun players lifted Wally Van Kuffler into the air to celebrate their 34–21 victory.
On the bus ride home, Brock spoke in a low tone to Mak. “Why did everyone pick him up? He played like junk.”
Mak shrugged. “You and I know he played like junk, but anyone who looks at the numbers will peg him for an all-state quarterback on the rise.”
“Moravia must have dropped three easy interceptions.” Brock’s voice hissed with passion. “The three touchdowns he threw were garbage. One should have been picked off. The other two were screen passes where Calenzo ran for about fifty yards.”
“I was sitting right next to you, remember?” Mak said. “The bad thing is that Coach Spada’s gonna see those numbers and think Wally Van Kuffler is a great quarterback. Did you see Coach Van Kuffler’s face? He looks like he won the lottery and got elected president of the United States in the same day.”
“Won’t Coach Spada know? Won’t he watch the video?” Brock asked.
Mak snorted. “He’s not gonna watch any seventh-grade video. He’s getting ready for the varsity games. He’ll get the box score, that’s for sure. Van Kuffler probably already texted it to him.”
62
The next week in practice, Coach Van Kuffler started switching third-team players to second team and the normal second-team guys to the third team. That way, Brock had to play quarterback with the worst players. Brock was second team in name only. The linemen, receivers, and running backs he practiced with were the bottom of the barrel, third-team scrubs. That meant that most of the time Brock’s receivers ran the wrong routes. When they did do the right thing, they typically dropped the pass anyway.
When the second-team offense practiced as a whole unit, it went against the first-team defense. Surrounded by the worst players, Brock and his group got slaughtered by the first team. Defensive linemen swarmed Brock like bees and, more times than not, his offense went backward.
Meanwhile third-team offense practiced against the third-team defense. So Wentzel basically quarterbacked the second-team offense against the scrubs. There wasn’t much Brock could do about it. He was the second-team quarterback and the explanation sounded lame, especially for a kid who had missed the opening game eligibility for a headache.
Meanwhile, it took Mak just one practice—where he sent five teammates to the trainer’s office with fresh injuries—before Coach Hewitt moved him back up to first team. Mak beamed at Brock when it happened, and Brock couldn’t help feeling happy, even though he knew it meant he was alone, again.
That Saturday in their home opener against Liberty Middle—Calhoun’s weakest opponent of the year—the first team got pulled off the field in the fourth quarter with a 54–6 lead. When Coach Hewitt sent the second team in, Brock’s fingers trembled. As he jogged out onto the field, he looked up into the stands. His father sat with Laurel and her mom. Taylor was at a varsity weight-lifting session, after having pounded on Liberty’s varsity the evening before.
They all waved to him. His arm felt numb as he flung a hand up in their direction.
Coach Van Kuffler stood with his arms crossed on the sideline. Brock looked at him, waiting for the signal. The ref blew the whistle that began the play clock. Coach Van Kuffler stood, staring at Brock, a smile slowly curling the corners of his mouth. Precious seconds ticked by.
On the sideline, Coach Hewitt finally yelled at his offensive coach. “Coach! Let’s go! Signal a play!”
Van Kuffler’s arms flashed a quick signal. Brock wasn’t sure if it was a Light Right 651 Play Pass or a Light Right 651 Trap. He gritted his teeth and decided to call the pass. Brock knelt in the huddle and barked out the play to his wide-eyed teammates, normally third-stringers who didn’t see live action in a game. They broke the huddle and moved like a ragtag army to the line of scrimmage.
The ref raised his arm and began to signal the last ten seconds before Brock would get a delay of game penalty. Brock hurried to the line.
His left guard turned around and gaped at Brock in confusion. “What’s the protection?”
Brock could only shake his head in disbelief. “I have no idea. You’re the lineman, not me.”
The seconds ticked away in Brock’s head. He noticed now the Liberty defenders who’d been pounded on all game long were licking their chops at the sight of the
Calhoun backups. The nose tackle—an enormous kid built like a bear—growled and snorted and his coiled legs trembled like springs.
Brock waved his guard into a stance and got under center. He barked the cadence, knowing he had no choice if he was going to avoid a penalty. He took the snap and pivoted. The running back was supposed to fake taking the handoff. Brock held it out momentarily before pulling it back in, but the runner panicked, grabbed at the ball, and Brock fumbled.
He scooped it up quickly and saw the giant nose tackle break free through the line. Brock dashed back and turned, looking downfield. His primary receiver ran a five route, breaking to the inside instead of a six route, which broke outside. The mistake drew the safety directly into his other receiver’s seven route. Brock knew the one route, a hitch to the outside, was his only hope. As the nose tackle slammed into him, he rifled the ball to the outside receiver. As Brock fell, he saw the ball bounce off the receiver’s hands into the air.
Brock smashed into the ground with the enormous kid on top of him and saw a world of stars. He heard the visitors’ stands erupt into cheers and as he struggled to his feet, he got to see the Liberty cornerback who’d intercepted the pass waltz into the end zone, backward.
Brock jogged off and Van Kuffler met him at the white line. “You can’t throw the one when the cornerback’s pressed up like that! You gotta know better than that! That’s basic!”
Spittle flew from Van Kuffler’s mouth like little missiles. Brock blinked and looked past the red-faced coach into the stands. His father, Laurel, and her mom all frowned sympathetically. Brock felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
“Easy, Coach. He’s just not ready,” Coach Hewitt said.
“Coach, I . . .” Brock couldn’t finish his sentence.
“I told you, Buzz,” Coach Van Kuffler snarled at Coach Hewitt.
Coach Hewitt snarled right back. “Coach Spada wanted him second team. That’s that.”
“Well, let me put our third string in, then.” Van Kuffler leered at Brock.
“Go ahead,” Coach Hewitt said, turning and walking away. “Do that.”
Brock hung his head and slumped down on the bench.
For the next offensive series, Wentzel went in with the “third-string offense,” who drove down the field, mostly running the ball since Wentzel only completed one of five passes, and scored a touchdown to make it 63–12.
Brock sat, sickened by it all, and burning with rage at the injustice.
Up in the stands he saw the only ray of hope he had.
Laurel’s mom put her arm around his dad and rested her head on his shoulder.
63
It was Thursday evening when Brock’s dad and Laurel’s mom left the dinner table on the terrace and walked together toward the barn. Brock never knew his dad could ride a horse. But he’d never known his dad could fly a plane, either, yet he had done just that to help them escape the men who’d hunted him. Brock stared out at the river and ran a finger along his nose and the side of his face. That plane ride seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Ready to throw a little?” Taylor got up from the table and set his linen napkin down next to the fancy silver goblet that had held his ice cream.
“Sure.” Brock looked at Laurel and got up when she did. They followed Taylor down the steps and fired a couple dozen balls at the targets on his net. Afterward, they went inside and worked on the whiteboard for a half hour until some of Taylor’s teammates showed up to go over some plays and watch one last bit of video of their upcoming opponent, Bradley West.
“You guys can stay.” Taylor gave Laurel a one-armed hug.
“That’s okay.” Laurel squeezed him back. “I want Brock to meet Sea Saw.”
“Oooo.” Taylor raised his eyebrows. “She’s taking you to meet Sea Saw. This is serious. Next thing you know, she’s gonna kiss him.”
Brock’s face burned at the thought of Taylor finding out that Laurel had already kissed him. He knew Sea Saw was Laurel’s horse. He’d never seen the animal, but thought nothing of not being introduced.
“Leave me alone.” Laurel shrugged her brother off and took Brock by the hand to lead him out back. “I can introduce Brock to Sea Saw. I was a little girl when I said that stuff.”
Taylor laughed and explained to his teammates who were lounged in their desk chairs. “My little sister said the only boy she’d ever introduce to Sea Saw was the one she’d marry.”
The whole room broke out in hoots and whistles. Brock felt his face turning even more colors as Laurel shooed her brother’s ideas away with one hand and dragged Brock away with the other. When they got outside and closed the door, Brock laughed. “Did you really?”
“I know we kissed, but I’m not asking you to marry me.” She slapped him lightly on the arm. “Don’t get any ideas, but yes, I always said that. I love my Sea Saw. Wait till you see him. You’ll know why.”
She held Brock’s hand and led him all the way to the barn, and he didn’t try to break away. Instead, he tightened the grip between them. Her fingers were long and strong and cool. He thought his might be a little sweaty, but she didn’t seem to mind. The big barn doors were open, but there was no sign of their parents. They walked in and as Brock’s eyes adjusted he realized there were more than a dozen horses in spacious wooden stalls. Fresh hay mixed with the smell of horse droppings.
“It doesn’t smell too bad.” Brock sniffed the air; it was rich and earthy.
“There’s hope for you yet.” Laurel stopped in front of one of the stalls, lifted the latch and led him inside before closing it. Standing on the straw-covered floor was an animal so black and sleek and strong-looking that Brock took in a sharp breath.
Sea Saw looked down at him with a big glassy eye, then walked over to Laurel and nudged her shoulder with his nose.
She wrapped both arms around his head and cooed as she stroked the ridge of hair between his eyes and nose. “There’s my boy. Good Sea Saw.”
Then she stepped back and took Brock’s hand, guiding it toward the horse’s face. “Sea Saw, meet Brock. He’s the boy I told you about, the boy who kissed me.”
Brock shook his head. He wanted to tell her that it was she who kissed him, but something told him to keep his mouth shut and pat the horse, so he did.
When they heard the sound of voices entering the barn, they both froze. Laurel grinned and held a finger up to her lips. “Shh.”
Brock heard his father’s voice, and then Laurel’s mother answer back.
Laurel giggled, but muted it with a fist. “Let’s listen. You want to?”
Part of him did. He wanted to listen and see if his master plan was unfolding. But part of him didn’t. He knew it wasn’t right to spy on people.
It was too late anyway. The parents had led their horses past Sea Saw’s stall. They’d gone quiet, and it would have been too uncomfortable at this point to pop out of Sea Saw’s stall and say “hi,” so Brock nodded that he’d be quiet too.
“Shh.” Laurel nodded and winked.
Laurel’s mom burst out suddenly and loudly, with passion. “I just don’t understand . . . Why?”
Brock’s heart froze.
It was unmistakable, beneath the sound of her words.
Laurel’s mom was sobbing.
64
Brock could imagine the look on his father’s face by the tone of his voice. He could see the dull eyes and the flat mouth, that blank look.
“I can’t explain it. I’m sorry.”
“If you need time . . .” Laurel’s mom seemed to almost be pleading.
“That’s not it.”
Brock’s stomach plummeted. He couldn’t even look at Laurel. He sensed she wanted the same thing he did, for their parents to become a couple.
“But, we’ve . . . you’ve . . .” Laurel’s mom’s voice turned a bit angry.
“We’re friends, Kim. Our kids are friends. I thought I was clear.”
“I thought you were playing hard to get.” Her mom barked out a quick l
augh. “I am such a fool.”
“You’re not.” Brock’s dad’s voice softened a bit. “And I’m sorry I can’t explain. Maybe one day I can.”
It got quiet. Sea Saw grunted and shifted hooves, scratching the straw. Brock tried to quiet his breathing.
“Leave!” Laurel’s mother’s shout made Brock and Laurel both flinch. “Just leave here! I don’t want to see you. Don’t come back. Go!”
Brock could imagine that his father nodded his head without expression.
“I’m sorry,” his father mumbled.
Brock heard the scuff of his father’s feet as he turned and left the barn. Laurel’s mom let loose an agonized groan, then she ran out the opposite way.
Brock couldn’t do anything other than look at Laurel and, by the expression on her face, he knew that everything was ruined.
65
Laurel looked as stunned as Brock.
Neither of them spoke. She led him silently out of the barn, not by the hand, but by some invisible tether that tugged at him. The sun settled like a red ball into the trees across the river, the sky above bruised and bleeding. Thick dark clouds promised something ugly. A fitful wind began to whip at their faces and hair. They circled the house, coming at the terrace from the opposite direction to find Brock’s dad standing above them. He had his hands braced against the railing, facing the weather, and leaning into it like the prow of a ship.
“Time to go, Brock,” he called out as they approached.
“Yes, sir.” Brock snuck a look at Laurel.
Her face was tight and her eyes moist. She shook her head at him. She didn’t know what to say and he rewarded her with the same blank mask his father wore.
“Thanks for everything,” he said.
“My pleasure.” The formal sound of her voice cut him.
His father turned and Brock followed him through the house, thinking how comfortable they both were to just walk right on through like they owned the place. Out the front door they went, Laurel closing it behind them as they climbed into their car. Brock waited until they were out on the highway before he spoke.