Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  Still, I return to practice and move through the motions, alternating with Grey on the A team. I even run laps after practice in step with Grey, the brace definitely improving the hitch in my stride.

  As the rest of the team stalks off to the showers, dinner on their minds, I tug Grey back, tucking him against the chain-link fence that separates the stadium from the alley of asphalt that leads to the locker rooms.

  I twine his hands in mine and meet him with my game-day glare. “Tell me the truth. Are you really okay to play?”

  Grey doesn’t blink, the sweat on his face dried into fine white lines. His curls are matted down from his helmet, but they still look frustratingly perfect. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  A lump is in my throat and I know he can hear it when I ask, “You’re sure?”

  His hands come to my face, thumbs cradling my cheeks as if they’re made of glass. “I promise. No more headaches.”

  My lips drop open, but before I can insist he tell me again, he’s turned the tables on me. “And your knee? When were you going to tell me about that?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, though he’s no dummy to the brace or my diagnosis. “I know what a real injury feels like. It’s not a big deal.”

  His little half smile kicks up and his gray eyes flash in the dying light. “So you weren’t going to tell me.”

  “No,” I admit. “But you would’ve found out Saturday night, anyway.” I lean in to him, our lips close enough I can feel his breath. Our pads click together, numbers sixteen and thirteen becoming one. “My homecoming dress does have a pretty good slit in it.” I can’t afford a new dress, so I’m wearing Addie’s from last year, and, yeah, it’s epic.

  “Oh, it does, does it?” His face breaks into a real smile, everything about him softening. “I can’t wait.”

  And then he kisses me.

  40

  AT THE END OF THE WEEK, THE STADIUM IS PACKED—brimming with Northland orange, Styrofoam cups of hot cocoa, and vats of popcorn, M&Ms spilling to the bleachers in tragic numbers. A contingent wrapped in shimmering Jewell Academy gold with slick black accents has no problem equally filling the other side of the stadium; a win is that much more satisfying on a competitor’s homecoming night. On our side, Dad, Mom, Ryan, Danielle, Heather, and Addie are scrunched into the northeast corner. This time, they are ALL wearing orange, even Addie and Danielle.

  Down on the field, the electricity of it all, sparking from the stadium bodies as much as from the Friday night lights, crackles across the loop of exposed skin at my wrists, the scoop of my neck, my face. The current drills through the fabric, pads and bones and straight to my heart.

  And my heart can barely take it.

  I’m standing next to Grey, fighting the urge not to tie him to the fence lining the infield and track—far from where he can get hurt.

  He’s his own person. He’s making his own decision.

  My dad trusted me to do the same, and I can’t ask Grey to do differently.

  I respect Grey’s choice—but…

  But it still makes the walls of my heart deflate.

  The team stands together along the sideline, all facing Coach Lee, who’s hopped onto one of the aluminum benches, eyes glittering under the lights. I’m in the very center of the circle, crowded in next to Grey, our shoulders kissing. I make a grab for his hand, pinkie and ring fingers hauling his hand into mine.

  “Hello, Tigers.”

  “Hello, Coach,” the team yells back, enthusiastic as ever.

  “We’re playing the defending state champs—that’s worth as much weight as any words of encouragement I could spit out at you. So, I’ll leave it at this.” There’s a pause the size of Topps’s truck. “This is a damn good football team, and whatever happens tonight won’t change that.”

  Coach Lee uses words in a more meaningful way than almost anyone I’ve ever met. And yet the way he crafted that sentence is almost like he’s giving us an out. A preemptive strike.

  Almost like he expects us to lose.

  The circle is silent, Coach’s words coiling inside each of the jerseyed bodies rather than evaporating into the cool night air.

  Grey’s game face tightens—all his warm, happy cat energy evaporated. Still, he squeezes my hand before reaching up to put on his helmet. Jake appears at his side—my past and my present so close, the edges of my shadow blur into theirs, a trick of the blazing overheads, making us one.

  We stand that way, watching the defense take the field after Jewell wins the coin toss and decides to receive the kickoff. One play later and they’ve scored, their kicker coming out to make it 7–0.

  Thirty seconds off the clock and we’re down.

  With that, Jake taps out a fist bump and Grey checks my shoulder, breaking his game face just long enough to toss me a half smile.

  And then they’re gone.

  At the half, we’re tied; 21–all.

  We squeeze into the locker room, and the bodies give just enough that I can huddle in next to Grey. Grass stains and flecks of sod ruin the perfect white of his pants, his orange jersey smeared along the backside. Sweat clings to the angles of his jawline and cheekbones. He’s done a stellar job, already past the hundred-yard mark passing on the day, spry in the pocket, avoiding the sack. He’s been knocked down once or twice, sure, but it’s been nothing terrible, thank God. He and Jake have worked perfectly in tandem to keep up with Jewell, like the pros they are. Like the college players they want to be.

  Both of their faces are hard with hope. Eyes set on Coach Lee. Waiting for some confirmation that he was wrong before kickoff. That we don’t need an out. That we can get the win.

  “Tigers,” Coach starts, “you’re fighting. Fighting hard. And it shows. But—”

  I swallow, stomach dropping though I haven’t taken a snap.

  “But running stride for stride won’t win us this game. Winning means we can’t just match Jewell, we must best Jewell.”

  Coach glances at Nick and the other linebackers. “Trample Jewell.”

  At Jake and the receivers flanking him. “Outsprint Jewell.”

  At Grey, and by extension, me. “Sail above Jewell.”

  He lets that sink in, challenge given and clear.

  We do have a chance.

  But only if we work for it.

  We’re ushered back out of the locker room to announcements from the stands about tomorrow night’s dance, and I’m glad I’m not expected to play this half because all of a sudden, visions of Grey in a suit have me just a tad distracted.

  We hit the sidelines to warm back up, Grey drilling it to both Brady and myself at different distances for three minutes tops before Shanks snags him and Jake to talk specific scenarios. We’re starting the half receiving the kickoff, and against Jewell Academy, that means score first or be crushed.

  “O-Rod! Brady!” Shanks’s big arm motions us to come over.

  Brady’s final pass lands in my outstretched fingertips and we jog over, Grey shifting to make room. The circle also includes both tight ends and the secondary, plus Topps for good measure.

  “Okay, team, the ground game is still our best bet, but they were plugging the holes at the end of the half—gotta start adding in the pass.” We all nod and Shanks begins circling certain plays with a dry-erase marker on the laminated cheat sheet. “Worthington, let’s start with your best Joe Montana impression and go from there.”

  Translated, that means short passes that lead to big runs—the hallmark of Montana’s 49ers days. It’s basically what we do on a normal basis, but Shanks has eliminated passes that go deeper than ten yards. Which is fine with me—the less amount of time Grey has the ball in his hands, the better, because he’s less likely to be drilled.

  The drums start and a line of golden uniforms stretches the field. Our receivers, Gonzalez and Chow, are deep, awaiting the ball, bouncing on their toes, speed sparking at their cleats.

  The ball is up and high, rocketing toward the end zone. Gonzalez is there, wa
iting for it to drop at the ten-yard line. He catches it and loops right, snaking down the sideline.

  There’s a whistle. A waving of hands. Lots of pointing, the refs saying he stepped out.

  I call bullshit because Jaden Gonzalez is a senior and pretty much a professional tightrope walker. But all the Jewell players and coaches are pointing to the spot, down at our fifteen. And the refs are corroborating it.

  A golden cheer floats into the night as the Northland bench peters into a frustrated grumble. We now have to get it eighty-five yards downfield on this drive, when Gonzalez was in position to make it all the way down past midfield, well into Jewell territory.

  If Grey is daunted, it doesn’t register. He gives me a grin and a piece of a three-way QB fist bump and trots out onto the turf, gathering the offense into a huddle.

  Jake gets the first play, snagging it from Grey on a rollout and pushing for four yards when the hole closes on top of him. The next play is a Montana-style dump, barely over the heads of the line, but the target, Tate, falls backward on the plant.

  Losing at least a yard.

  Meaning we need a yard on the next two plays to keep it moving.

  Predictably, Jake gets the next call, barely gaining the needed yard, and audibly chewing out the line for not making room.

  Still, the chains move.

  But the next two plays aren’t as lucky. Jake gets stuffed both times. Grey goes for another Montana-style dump, but Tate is pushed out of position and the whole thing ends up a fingertip away from an interception.

  Grey pulls the offense back into the huddle, and the punter stays on the sidelines, which sort of scares the shit out of me because if we miss the next play, Jewell gains possession inside the thirty. Which means they’ll score in less than a minute—I’d bet every Snickers in Shanks’s freezer.

  But Grey holds firm, shouting out White Forty-Two.

  A play that is most definitely not on the approved list.

  My lungs stutter to a halt as I watch him palm Topps’s snap and rocket back into the pocket, gaining a better view.

  Grey’s arm swings back, target in sight: Chow, fifty yards downfield.

  Chow dodges his defender and manages to get open. Grey launches the ball toward him, the arc perfect.

  But I don’t see if the pass connects.

  I don’t see if it’s intercepted.

  All I see is Grey being swallowed by gold two seconds after he releases the ball.

  The ground seems to shake under my feet as they hit the sod in a tangle, numbers fifty-five and ninety-two landing so hard on top of Grey that they bounce on impact, revealing a flash of orange and white for a split second before devouring him once more.

  They lay there in a pile, the only movement a Northland helmet rolling free across the turf.

  “Grey!” I’ve never yelled so loudly in my life, but his name is still drowned by the crowd. Helmetless and stiff knee balking, I sprint onto the field, both running toward him and waving my arms, trying to get any ref’s attention for this insane roughing-the-passer bullshit.

  But the refs aren’t looking. They’re at the other end, officiating whatever happened with the ball, the brutality of the unnecessary hit completely swallowed in sound.

  “GREY!” I reach the pile and start yanking at number fifty-five. “Get off him, you ass!”

  Cleary and Sanchez join me, the linebackers much more effective at peeling a combined five hundred pounds off my boyfriend.

  The second I see Grey’s face, time screeches to a halt. His eyes are closed, temple to the ground, stripes of turf running the length of his forehead and into his hair.

  In my mind, all I can think of is what I know about a grade three concussion: loss of consciousness.

  Two of those just months apart and… I—I don’t know. But it can’t be good.

  My hands hover above his body, trembling at the thought of making it worse. Because it seems safest, I grab his right hand with both of mine and squeeze. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.…”

  Next to me, Nick yells back at the sideline: “We need a medic!”

  Khaki rushes the field. Napolitano, trailed by Shanks and Lee. They kneel down, hands braver than mine touching Grey’s head, touching his cheeks. Napolitano’s voice crackles into a radio, requesting the on-site EMT.

  “No, stop.…” We all stop and stare as Grey’s voice ghosts into the night, followed by the fluttering appearance of his eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “Grey!” I’m not sure what I expect, but my heart surges as he blinks, grasping at focus. I flash four fingers in front of his eyes, just because I’ve seen it in so many movies. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Enough to block your face. Don’t do that.” He’s still speaking slowly, but I barely have enough time to move my hand before his hands cup the back of my head, pulling me into a kiss. Inches from our coaches, right in the middle of the field.

  It’s quick, and probably not all that obvious from the stands, but it means everything to me.

  Grey releases me, attempting to sit up just as the medic crashes to the turf with his pack of gear.

  “No movement until I run through the concussion protocol,” the medic warns, forcing Grey to lie back down before flashing lights in his eyes and barking orders. This was something I couldn’t see when Jake went down, and now it makes way more sense why he was on the ground for so long.

  “I lost consciousness,” Grey says, and looks to me and Nick to confirm how long—we were the first ones there and he was awake by the time the EMT arrived.

  “He was out maybe five to ten seconds,” I say, and Nick nods in agreement.

  The EMT takes that in with the efficiency of most health-care professionals. “Any recent head trauma?”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  I look to Grey and then to the medic and back to Grey. I open my mouth because this is the exact situation where it can’t stay secret anymore. Screw college football, Grey’s head is worth more than just a scholarship. Feeling my panic, my coming words, Grey squeezes my hand. At first I think it might be to beg for my silence, but then he simply says, “I hit my head in a car wreck this summer.”

  The air in my chest won’t come as I watch the coaches for a reaction. Grey’s done hiding.

  Coach Lee looks like he’s swallowed a vat of soot. “Excuse me?”

  Grey’s eyes slide his way and they actually look relieved. “I was never diagnosed with anything, but it’s relevant. I lost consciousness. I’m sure of it. Just like I did now.”

  The medic simply takes in that information without a word, but Coach is sputtering—anger, frustration, and maybe a prickle of humiliation at not suspecting it himself coming out in puffed cheeks and a shaking head.

  “You’re a smart kid, Worthington—what the hell were you doing not telling us?”

  “Being an idiot,” Grey says as the medic again begins to shine a light into his eyes.

  That’s when the shoving starts downfield. The excitement on the other end of the field—a Northland touchdown, as it happens—turning into anger about our laid-out quarterback. The whole crowd notices the action, too, a rumbling silence falling over the stadium.

  Which only makes the ensuing fight louder.

  Shanks, Napolitano, Cleary, and Sanchez begin herding Tigers back to the sidelines, the Jewell Academy coaches slow to do the same. But a core group continues to snipe at each other despite the distance, the refs playing force field.

  Left with me, Coach Lee doesn’t flinch at the noise, patiently watching the medic do his work, but my body aches to run, muscles tense and ready to hurry Grey back to the relative safety of the sidelines.

  After forever and a day, the medic gives the official word—probable grade three concussion.

  Out comes Napolitano with the cart. Grey’s parents arrive, too.

  I want to cry, but I actually feel so much better knowing that he’s okay. That he’s getting medical he
lp. That the truth is out there and it’s going to be okay.

  Though, man, if Grey isn’t going to have to run a bazillion extra laps for this.

  As he’s loaded onto the cart, Grey’s hand lands on my thigh as I try to climb on, too. To stop me. To get my attention. To bring me out of girlfriend mode and into player mode.

  “Better grab Brady and get warm. The rest of this game is yours.”

  I’m in command.

  I lean down and give him one more kiss—quick and gentle.

  And then the cart, with Grey’s parents and the medic in the back, drives away. The crowd erupts as Grey raises a hand and flashes that smile of his toward the stands.

  41

  JEWELL SCORES QUICKLY ON THE NEXT DRIVE, AGAIN proving why they’re the defending state champs. After the extra point flies in, we’re again tied up, 28–all. The ensuing kick drives us to the enemy forty-nine; it’s not great, but better than on the other side of midfield.

  Time to go.

  My heart thumps, a cold trickle of fear behind it. My knee is injured, yes, but I can do this. I can. I can do it and I can do it without making it worse.

  I hope.

  A raucous cheer goes up as I jog onto the turf with the offense, the whole stadium—not just my family, not just my friends—lighting up. The thunder and crackle of the undertone clear: The girl quarterback is on the field.

  I let the sound stream through my bones. Let it infuse any possible extra strength to my muscles. It’s oh so powerful.

  For extra measure, my eyes shoot to the stands. My parents, Danielle, Ryan, Heather, and Addie—all together in a row. Their presence gives me an extra spring in my step.

  I can do this.

  The huddle is silent, all eyes on me. There’s no dissent, no questioning glances at my knee, though it’s still in its neoprene sleeve—just a hungry look on each face. I know that look well. The one of feeling like you’re down even though you’re actually tied, even though it’s your night, all because you have to work so much harder than your opponent.