Take Away

by Brandon Terrell

  The rain let up in the second half, and our play got stronger. The Troy defense kept Jamieson and his offense out of the end zone. Shane, on the other hand, capped off a twelve-play drive by hitting Brian in the corner of the end zone. Coach Z lined us up for a two-point conversion, and Ian pounded the ball in.

  Late in the fourth, we were still down by two. Our defense forced the Cyclones to punt, and Dylan ran the kick past midfield. With less than a minute left on the clock, we were going to have to pass the ball.

  Shane snuck the ball past the cornerback guarding Brian, right into our tight end’s hands. Brian raced up the field and darted out of bounds at the thirty-yard line.

  “Same play,” Shane called in the huddle. “We’ve only got one time-out left, and we’re still out of field goal range. Whatever you do, try to get out of bounds.”

  Shane dropped back to pass. I did my part, laying a block on a blitzing linebacker before rolling out into the flat. The Cyclones covered Brian well this time, and they forced Shane to checkdown. He tossed the ball out to me, and I raced to the edge. I was inside the twenty-five, heading for the sidelines. One of the Cyclone safeties barreled toward me, and I switched the ball from my right hand to my left out of instinct.

  Bad move.

  My hand couldn’t get a grip, and the ball fell loose again.

  “Fumble!” I heard the safety yell.

  I saw the ball at my feet, dove down, and wrapped it up. There was no way anyone was prying it loose. The safety landed hard on me, knocking the wind from my lungs.

  “Time-out!” I heard Shane cry. My near-turnover had cost us valuable time and yardage, and we were forced to stop the clock instead of running another play. I twisted my head up and searched for the glowing scoreboard. The clock had stopped with five ticks left in the game.

  “Field goal unit!” Coach Z waved wildly, sending our kicker, Scott, out onto the field. From where the refs had placed the ball, we were looking at a thirty-four-yard field goal. Not unheard of but still tough to manage in this kind of weather.

  I knelt on the sidelines, helmet in front of me, head lowered. I couldn’t watch.

  I heard the snap, the kick …

  And the Troy sideline went nuts.

  I looked up in time to see the refs lift both arms to the black sky. The field goal was good. We’d won by a point, eighteen to seventeen.

  Relief washed over me. It was a messy, ugly game, but we were back in the win column. That was all that mattered. I joined the rest of the team out on the field to celebrate, but nobody offered me a high five or fist bump. As Shane passed me, his shoulder pad clipped me hard, and I nearly fell to the wet ground.

  Apparently, winning wasn’t the only thing that mattered after all.

  8/SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2—SHAW HOME

  “Do you plan on sitting on your butt all day or what?”

  My dad stood in the doorway to my room, wiping his hands on a towel, grease and oil staining his faded shirt. Every weekend, he spent time in the garage, restoring a baby blue 1965 Mustang he’d bought at an auction last summer. He was currently in the middle of rebuilding the engine, hence the black smudges on his ball cap and hands.

  “Maybe,” I mumbled in response.

  I had been lying in bed all morning, depressed about last night’s two fumbles and my injured hand. The only time I’d snuck out of my room was to steal a box of Golden Grahams and a soda from the fridge. A small TV on my desk was turned to college football, and I had every intention of watching it until the sun went down.

  “Come on, Devon,” Dad said, “I could use a little help.”

  I sighed. “Sure. Gimme a minute.”

  A minute turned out to be about a half hour, but eventually, I changed out of my pajamas and into a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt. Dad was in the garage. He had the hood of the Mustang up and was bent over, examining the engine closely. A small light hung from the ceiling above it. A radio resting on the tool bench by the wall was tuned to a classic rock station.

  “Hand me the socket wrench, will ya?” Dad asked, blindly reaching back for it.

  I found it on the bench and passed it off with my right hand.

  We worked like this for a while, Dad asking for tools like a surgeon in an operating room and me passing them off like a dutiful nurse. Finally, Dad said, “Tough game last night. I bet you were glad to get out of there with a win.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Can’t believe I fumbled twice, though.”

  “Is your hand all right?” Dad knew I’d done something to it at practice the other day, but he wasn’t aware of how much it was actually bugging me.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Just take care of yourself. Football’s not worth ruining your hand, kid.” Dad was a rarity here in Troy. He couldn’t care less about the tradition of Trojan football. He hadn’t played ball back in high school. He wasn’t a member of the Friends of Troy boy’s club. He didn’t bow to the almighty Coach Z. He cared about his family, his faith, and his Mustang. And I loved him for it.

  “Pretty strange to see Orlando miss a game like that,” Dad continued. “Is he all right?”

  Aside from defecting to the Evil Empire? I thought. Most of the parents, my dad included, didn’t know about Orlando’s bold move. At least, not if they hadn’t read today’s paper. The sports section had a write-up about Athens beating the Granville Huskies at home, with Orlando catching two TD passes. At our house, I had snatched it from the kitchen counter earlier that morning.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” I answered. My phone began to chirp in my pocket. I dug it out, and on the screen was a text from Orlando. “Speak of the devil,” I muttered.

  HALLOWEEN PARTY 2NIGHT, the text read. U IN?

  I didn’t really want to go anywhere. USC was playing Ohio State, so I had a date with my television set.

  NAH, SORRY MAN, I wrote back.

  It didn’t take long for Orlando to respond. COME ON. GOT SOME GUYS 2 INTRODUCE U 2.

  RAIDER PARTY? No way I was going into enemy territory again. Shane and the guys already hated my guts. If they found out I was getting chummy with the enemy, it would be game over for me at Troy.

  YUP. PICKING U UP IN 45, Orlando texted.

  NO.

  YES.

  NO.

  WEAR A COSTUME. SOMETHING THAT AIN’T RED & WHITE.

  UGH. WHATEVER.

  Well, it was just a little party. It’s not like any of my teammates had checked in on me, seeing if I wanted to hang out with them or anything.

  I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “Dad, is it cool if I go hang with Orlando for a while tonight?”

  “As long as you take a shower,” Dad said. “You smell like a dirty sock.”

  I gave him a light shove. “This coming from the man with motor oil in his hair.”

  “That’s just my new hair product.” Dad shoved me back, laughing. “Now go, get on out of here. You’re no use to me here.” As I started to leave, he added, “Hey, Devon?” I turned. “Forget about last night’s game, kid. It’s not worth worrying over, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dad.” His advice was solid. I just wished he wasn’t the only person in the entire town of Troy who felt that way.

  9/SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2—RAIDERS HALLOWEEN PARTY

  Orlando drove me to a house outside of Athens, in the middle of Nowheresville. We turned off the highway, heading down a winding gravel road. How Orlando knew where we were going was beyond me. The house was surrounded by trees and had a huge yard. Even though Halloween had happened a couple days earlier, jack-o’-lanterns still decorated the house’s front yard. A lumpy scarecrow was propped up on a wooden post and wearing a Raiders jersey. The music inside was blasting so loud, I could feel the bass pumping as we drove up.

  Orlando pulled into a patch of grass on the side of the house, at the end of a line of parked cars. The party was in full force.

  “So … whose place is this?” I asked.

  Orlando shrugged. “Dunno.
Some kid named Wade. He ain’t on the team, but he calls himself the Raiders’ biggest fan. His parents are out of town or something.”

  Costumed teens swarmed throughout the house. A lot of zombies covered in fake blood. Vampires. Celebrities. Even a dude in a giant pink bunny costume.

  I’d brought my dad’s old werewolf mask, but I was wringing it nervously in my hands instead of wearing it. Orlando and I had barely stepped through the door before someone dressed as Freddy Krueger shoved a red plastic cup into my hand. I gave it a sniff, wrinkled my nose in disgust—some sort of foul-smelling alcohol—and set it down on a nearby coffee table.

  While Orlando made the rounds, flirting with every girl who made eye contact with him, I found my way to the basement. I didn’t talk to anyone. Instead, I hid out in the corner of the house’s game room, watching Spider-Man and Frankenstein’s monster shoot a game of pool. I felt completely out of place.

  Thirty minutes or so later, Orlando came down the steps, leaning in close and talking to a girl in a skimpy referee outfit. She laughed, playfully swatting his chest with one hand as if to push him away and blowing a whistle that hung around her neck.

  “Illegal use of the hands,” she said. “Fifteen yards!”

  Orlando saw me, made his way through the crowd. “’Sup, Devon Downer?” he said. “Don’t look like you’re having so much fun.”

  “I want to bail,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “Nah, man. Not yet. Come on.”

  I followed Orlando back upstairs and out onto the patio. The backyard was huge, an acre at least, surrounded on all sides by tall trees. The only light came from a huge bonfire. It made the shadows flicker against the trees. A bunch of teenagers huddled around it.

  We walked together toward the fire, passing by a couple dressed as heavy metal rockers who’d snuck near the trees to make out. One dude sitting near the fire had a guitar, and he was trying hard to play a song that sounded vaguely familiar. A group of girls sat together, their boyfriends’ letterman coats draped over their shoulders like blankets.

  “Orlando, man, what’s up?” I recognized the guy speaking to us: the Raiders’ starting quarterback, Jack Wayne. He stood near the fire, a plastic cup in one hand. A couple more guys from the team sat next to him in old lawn chairs. None of them were dressed in costume.

  “How you doin’, Wayne?” Orlando and the quarterback of the Evil Empire bumped fists like it was no big deal. Then Orlando tossed his thumb back in my direction. “Y’all know Devon Shaw?”

  “Hey, Devon,” Jack Wayne said, stepping over and shaking my hand. The guys seated near him introduced themselves. One was Pete Burnett, the Raiders’ tight end. The other guy was the team’s center, Greg Grunwold. He was so massive, it looked like his lawn chair was about to give out on him.

  “Nice to meet you, Devon,” Jack said. “Orlando talks a lot about you.”

  “Huh,” I said, cramming my hands in my pockets. “You mean he talks about somebody other than himself?”

  The guys roared with laughter, Orlando included.

  “So did he tell you about the catch he made last night?” Pete asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It was nuts. Double coverage, coming back at the ball—”

  “I’d been flushed out of the pocket,” Jack interrupted. “So I had to throw on the run.”

  “He tosses it up,” Pete continues, “and Orlando just leaps up and pulls it in like his gloves are made out of Krazy Glue!” He leaned back in his chair, raising his arms to catch an imaginary ball. He lost his balance, toppling over backwards into the grass.

  The group around the fire snickered as Pete scrambled up.

  “It was sick!” Greg added, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone leap over two defenders like that.”

  “What can I say, boys?” Orlando’s smile went ear to ear. I could practically see his head growing larger. “I’m a walking, talking highlight reel.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Jack Wayne flashed his best QB1 smile at me. It rivaled Shane Hunter’s. What is it about quarterbacks? “Dude, how cool would it be if you were lining up in our backfield?”

  I couldn’t help myself—I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Why not?” Orlando asked.

  “Because I’m a Trojan, O,” I said.

  “Man, if we had Orlando and you, Devon,” Jack said, “we’d win state for sure. Not even close.”

  “He’s afraid of Coach Z.” Orlando shook his head, disappointed. “Devon here doesn’t like to rock the boat, boys. Unlike this guy.”

  “From what Orlando’s been telling us, your coach is a real jerk,” Pete said.

  “Yeah,” Greg added. “Wouldn’t you love to stick it to the guy? Beat him in the play-offs and waltz into the state championship game?”

  I shrugged. The past week had been brutal. After the previous night’s game, I wasn’t even sure if Coach Z was going to start me next Friday, our last home game and our last chance to earn a spot in the play-offs. So maybe a change of scenery would be good for me. After all, these guys seemed … I couldn’t even believe I was thinking it … cool.

  “We’d be lucky to have you,” Jack said. “Our back, Cody, he’s good. But the way you can cut and change direction on a dime? Man, that kind of football can’t be taught.”

  “Thanks, but you wouldn’t be saying that if you saw last night’s game.” I rubbed my left wrist out of instinct.

  “That was one game,” Jack said. “A lot can change in a week.”

  I knew that feeling all too well.

  Orlando and I stayed awhile longer, tossing logs into the bonfire and watching as the flames rose high into the sky. The cold eventually won, though. People began to trickle back inside, where the music was still playing at full volume. The bitter weather made my wrist stiff, and I told Orlando I was ready to leave.

  As we walked down the gravel drive, back to Orlando’s car, a dented red pickup truck roared toward the house. Its high beams were on, forcing me to shield my eyes with one arm. The truck swerved into the grass and screeched to a halt.

  Two big dudes climbed out of the truck, football players in their letterman jackets. It was hard to identify them, but I was pretty sure I recognized the big lugs as D-linemen for the Raiders.

  Orlando snapped off a comic salute and said, “’Sup, Ethan? Danny?”

  “What are you doing here, Green?” asked the first guy. I’m pretty sure he was Ethan. His stretched letter jacket tried desperately to contain his chest. He didn’t even need a costume. Just slap him with green paint, and he could be the Incredible Hulk. “This party is for Raiders.”

  Orlando chuckled. “Last time I checked, I was standing in the end zone in a Raiders uni on Friday, racking up points on the scoreboard for your sorry butts.”

  “You may think you’re God’s gift to football,” said the second guy, Danny. He looked like he could probably bench press two of me. “But we didn’t need you to win. Still don’t.”

  “You’re just another one of Zachary’s lame attempts to get in our head,” Ethan said. “Nothing but a Trojan horse.”

  As the two knuckleheads barreled past us, Ethan bumped Orlando hard with his shoulder. I could see the anger in Orlando’s eyes and noticed him clenching his fists. Me, I was stunned that Danny knew what the term Trojan horse meant.

  “Come on, man,” I said, taking Orlando by the shoulder and turning him back toward his car. “Let’s get out of here. I’m tired.”

  10/MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4—BUSINESS CLASS & FOOTBALL PRACTICE

  When I walked into Coach Whitson’s business class on Monday morning, I thought for a brief second that Orlando was back. Sitting in his seat, wearing his Trojans jersey and everything. Except on the back of his jersey, where his name should have been, someone had slapped a strip of tape with TRAITOR on it in black Sharpie. It wasn’t Orlando at all. It was a dummy, one of the mannequins from the theater department. The dummy had no lower torso. It
was propped up in the chair.

  At the front of the room, Shane Hunter sat watching me. He covered his mouth with a hand and tried not to laugh. He failed. Ian and Scott sat behind him. They had their heads down on their desks, also laughing hysterically.

  “What do you think of my new art project?” Shane asked. “I’ve been carrying him around all morning. He’s my new best friend.”

  “I kind of like him,” Ian said. “He’s a lot quieter than the real Green.”

  I shook my head, stormed over, and yanked the dummy out of the chair. The other kids in the class, the non-football players, seemed to be enjoying the show.

  “So I hear you were out at Wade Jackson’s place on Saturday with Orlando,” Shane said. “You gonna jump ship and join your BFF on the Raiders now?”

  Maybe, I nearly shouted back.

  I looked over at Ian. He was our secondstring running back. If I did ditch the team, he’d be the guy to take my spot. There was hunger in his eyes.

  “Look, I just wanted to hang out with my friend,” I said. “You remember that concept? Friendship? Because up until a week ago, Orlando was your friend too.”

  “Well, Orlando sure doesn’t look like he needs me to be his friend,” Shane said. “He can braid hair and have pillow fights with Jack Wayne now.”

  Ian and Scott snickered like Shane just told the world’s greatest joke. The way they blindly followed Shane made me sick.

  Maybe being the guy who kept his head down and said nothing wasn’t the right tactic to use anymore.

  “Yeah, he’s made a few friends,” I explained. “But it’s not perfect over at Athens. Some of the guys on the team, they think he’s just one of Coach Z’s tricks, like he’s just messing with their minds. They call him Z’s Trojan horse. So don’t act like you know everyth—”

  “Shaw, what in the name of God is that?”

  Coach Whitson had just entered the room. He was standing behind me with a puzzled expression on his face. It was only then that I realized I was still holding the dummy wearing Orlando’s jersey.

  “Hunter’s idea of a lame joke,” I mumbled.