I ran the ball more in that first half than I ever had before, until I was sweating and heaving and playing with a hitch in my side. It felt like Coach Z was punishing me for considering a move to Athens, even though there was no way for him to know how serious I’d been about the idea.
Late in the second quarter, the score was sixteen to six—Coach Z had gone back to his usual ‘two-point conversions only’ style of play. We had the ball inside the five, first and goal. I was certain that I was going to get the call, that Z was finally going to let me break the goal line and score a TD.
Shane crouched into the huddle. “Twenty-one wildcat,” he said.
A halfback pass play. I could try to run the ball in. Or if the defense pounced on the run, I could pass the ball off to a wide receiver or a tight end. It was a trick play, something Coach Z didn’t do very often.
We lined up. The crowd matched our intensity—they were so loud I could barely hear Shane calling out the signals. When our center hiked the ball, Shane dropped back, turned, and laid the ball right in my stomach. I took two steps forward, head down like I was going to barrel through the line. The Lions bit. Their secondary rushed forward, collapsing into the line and leaving the middle of the field wide open.
Which is exactly where Orlando stood.
I stepped back and lobbed the ball over the line, into his waiting arms.
He strolled into the end zone untouched.
The score at the half was twenty-four to six, and we never looked back. During the second half, we mostly ran the ball in order to eat up the clock and maximize our time of possession. The deeper into the game we went, the more my wrist—my whole body—ached. But I did my job, went out there, and found any seam I could.
But the night belonged to Orlando. Coach Z was proud to have him back on the field, and he showed his prize player to the crowd every chance he could.
Late in the game, we were up by three touchdowns, with the ball at the fifty-yard line. Coach called for the corner route, the same play that started the Orlando-in-Athens fiasco.
Shane dropped back to pass. I stepped up to block on the right side of the line and dropped a blitzing linebacker to his knees. I heard Shane grunt behind me, knew the ball was in the air, and craned my neck to watch downfield. I was completely exposed—a defender could have easily flattened me. Thankfully, none did.
The ball was a laser beam, blasting through double coverage and sailing right into Orlando’s hands. He sprinted in for his third touchdown reception of the night.
The crowd loved every second of it.
I hoped Jack Wayne and all of the jerks over at Athens, especially the ones who vandalized Orlando’s car, would see the game highlights. I hoped they saw, and I hoped they were scared. Because we were gunning for them.
When the final buzzer sounded and the cannons outside the field boomed and echoed through the crisp Troy night, we had won by a score of forty to thirteen.
The team, the stands, the band, the cheerleaders, the parents, the Friends of Troy, they all mobbed the field. I found myself in the middle of the melee, surrounded by teammates who were hoisting one another into the air. I saw Orlando and bounced my way past other players until I reached him.
He tore off his helmet and wrapped his arms around me in a wicked bear hug. He lifted me into the air and shouted, “Play-offs, here we come! Yeah, baby!”
14/FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8—THE TROY LOCKER ROOM
Our celebration continued in the locker room, where someone—I think it was Brian Norwood—started singing the Troy High fight song. Soon enough, we’d all joined in. The cement walls of the locker room reverberated with our voices.
I’d never felt this amazing in my life.
As I stood by my locker, stripping off the sweaty black shirt I wore under my uniform, I saw the Friends of Troy stride into the room. Mr. Willard had a big smile on his face. He went around shaking everyone’s hand and congratulating each one of us on a game well played.
“Way to continue the winning tradition here at Troy, son,” he said to Shane Hunter, clasping QB1’s hand.
Big Bill Norwood hugged Brian, and Wally Doyle extended his arms and shouted, “The restaurant is all yours tonight, boys! Come and enjoy some celebratory pizzas!” I knew there would be a party elsewhere too, where more … exciting things than pizza would be served. But we’d start at Doyle’s, and that was all right.
It was going to be a long night.
Coach Z stood behind everyone, a smile stretched across his face.
I took my time showering and dressing. The rest of the guys were eager to hit Doyle’s, which would be crawling with cheerleaders and other girls from our class, so they sprayed themselves with too much deodorant or cologne and headed on their way.
Orlando smacked me on the head as he passed by. “Hey, man, my car is still out of action,” he said. “You mind if I snag a ride?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Cool. Meet you outside.”
I finished dressing, gathered my things, and slammed my locker closed. As I walked past the coaches’ office, I glanced through the slats in the window. Coach Whitson and Shane sat inside, talking. They hadn’t noticed me, but I could hear them just fine.
“Thanks again, Shane,” Whitson said. “And thank Ian and Scott for us too.”
“Sure thing, Coach,” Shane said.
“Great game out there.”
I ducked behind a row of lockers as they exited the office. Coach Whitson left the door ajar.
When both Whitson and Shane had gone down the hall leading out to the parking lot, I stepped to the office door and peered inside. I don’t know what I thought I’d find. Probably nothing. I shook my head, was about to turn and walk away, when something under Coach Whitson’s metal desk caught my attention: a white plastic bag from a local hardware store.
I couldn’t be sure of the bag’s contents. But I could have sworn I saw the bulges of two or three cans of spray paint.
Nah. That can’t be right. I’m seeing things.
I wanted to get a closer look, though, because right then, I was starting to think that Shane Hunter and some of the other guys were responsible for vandalizing Orlando’s car, not his Athens teammates. And under Coach Whitson’s—maybe even Coach Z’s—orders. And that was just stupid.
Wasn’t it?
I hesitated. Did I really want to know the truth? What if it meant losing Orlando for good? We were two games away from a state championship—from Troy High School immortality. And wasn’t that the dream?
“Hey! Anybody left in here?” Coach Whitson’s voice scared the crap out of me. I jumped back from the open door like it was scorching hot and prayed Whitson didn’t see me snooping.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Coming, Coach!”
Coach Whitson rounded the corner from the hall leading outside. “Get the lead out, Shaw,” he said. “You’ve got celebrating to do, right?”
“Right, Coach.” I opened my mouth, almost spoke up about the plastic bag. But instead, I added, “Great to have Orlando back, isn’t it?”
“Darn straight,” Coach Whitson said with a smile. “They better clear a nice big spot in the school’s trophy case, because that state championship is ours for the taking.”
I smiled back. “Agreed.”
“Now, get out of here. Go get yourself some pizza, and have a little fun. But not too much fun, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, lowering my head, moving to the exit, and doing what the coach asked me to do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brandon Terrell is the author of numerous books for young readers, including picture books, novels, and graphic novels. He is also one of the writers for The Choo Choo Bob Show, an educational children’s television program about trains. When not hunched over his laptop, Brandon enjoys watching movies and television, reading, baseball, and spending every spare moment with his wife and their two children.
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