Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“ T wenty-nine days, gentleman.”
The locker room is hot as we all stand shoulder pads to pads, hands grasping helmets, eyes forward as Coach walks in the middle of our man-made circle. My feet are teeming with so much electricity I rock back and forth to tame my energy. Half the room does the same. We’re primed, like race cars edging up to the line, the smell of gasoline in the air.
Game day.
Whiskey’s face is painted for war, dark lines dripping from his eyes down his jawlines. His face matches the hurt he’s ready to give anyone who gets near me or Bryce tonight. Nobody’s getting through him.
“You’ve sweat on that field, put in the work, grinded your asses off for this moment. Right now!”
Whiskey starts to clap, and a few of the O-linemen nod their heads and shout, “Yes!”
“I tell you, in all my years, I’ve never had a team more ready than you are right now. Hungrier. More deserving. I feel it in the air. Can you?”
“Yes, Coach!” The room thunders with our united voice.
“Remember this feeling, gentlemen. Remember how your hearts feel. That burn in your legs. The taste you have for blood. Smell it. Can you smell it?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“Oh, I know you do! It’s all right there for you. This game wants you to take it. It’s yours to win. Those guys over there?” He points to the north end of the room, where the visitor’s locker room rests beyond layers of brick and turf and glass and noise.
“Those guys think they can steal it from you!”
“No, Coach!”
“Yeah, that’s what I think too. They’re weak. They ain’t ready for this!”
Coach begins to clap, and Whiskey steps into the center of the room to join him. I move in next, along with Keaton, our top receiver, and Deacon, our center. Captains—seniors. Our year. The last first game of my college career. It hits me in the chest all at once, but the feeling isn’t like yesterday—it’s not sentimental. It’s war. Testosterone-fueled war. And there will be no prisoners.
Coach nods to me to take over, and my chest swells.
“Who are we?” My voice booms, the gravely howl coming from somewhere deep inside me.
“Wildcats!”
“I said, who are we?”
“Wildcats!”
I lean forward and pound on the wooden bench this program keeps around for this very reason. Hands join in, the storm growing in strength as we pound the wood, the room vibrating with our aggression—with our heart for this game. With our need to win.
“One—two—three!” I count off, ready for it.
“Bear down!”
We rush from the locker room down the concrete corridor, the tight space echoing the thunder of our feet and the yowls from our mouths. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and chemicals from the fireworks leaks into the hallway and I breathe it in, letting it mentally transport me to every time before.
Twenty-nine days.
Three years of this tunnel.
My last year on this field.
My final first game here, in this uniform, wearing the same number as the man I grew up admiring—the same 13 that Reed is wearing out on the sidelines as he rallies our student section before we take the field.
One moment. This is it, and I’m going to be present for every single breath of it.
The team rushes out in front of us as I walk to the edge of the tunnel with my three co-captains, our hands linked, the feel of magic in our veins.
“Take it in, boys,” I shout.
And we all do. Looking around as the crowd roars, the red and blue pompoms flickering against the stadium lights on either side of us as we step onto the field.
“Welcome to Wildcat Country!” The announcer’s words are the signal, and the four of us drop hands and begin our slow run through the two lines of boosters, alumni, former players, redshirted freshmen, and cheerleaders.
My eyes find her instantly, on the end, as she promised. And after three years of holding myself back from kissing my girl in front of a stadium full of fans, I give in and kiss her hard, bending her back with my helmet held high in my other hand.
“I love you, Peyton Johnson. All for you, baby! This is all for you!” I jog backward and put my helmet on as she cups her mouth and screams, “Let’s go!”
Reed’s words yesterday at the luncheon resonated with me. He reminded me who I am. I’m Todd Stone’s son, the man who pulled a woman out of her burning apartment building seconds before it collapsed; the guy who never missed a Christmas or a birthday, even if it meant we celebrated with him at the station. His roots are my roots, and I found the Johnsons because of the man he made me. And the man he wanted me to be would step up in front of Bryce just as I am now, helmet to helmet, my hands on his shoulders and his on mine.
“We got this!”
Our eyes lock and for the first time, I don’t see an adversary. I see a brother. Past is past. This is now.
“You got this! My ass isn’t even getting in this game today, you hear me? You’re going to march down that field and score. They never saw you coming, Wy! Never saw you coming!”
Bryce builds me up as we push our heads together, helmet grinding against helmet, gritted teeth mirrored with my own.
“I got this!”
“You got this!”
We’re in sync. Teammates. However we got here, it’s happened. And Todd Stone’s son is embracing it.
I sidestep my way down the line, bumping chests with teammates, shouting in faces, lifting everyone up until I make it to Reed. We leap and bump shoulders, which gets the student section on their feet as I turn and jog to the fifty-yard line to meet my co-captains for the coin toss. We lose, and Tech elects to kick off first, which plays right into our hands because of me—I’ve never been more ready.
Tech’s kick puts us at the twenty-five-yard line, and Coach sends me out on the field with three words, “Give them Tombstone.” I take my orders to my brothers, repeating it just as he said, and everyone nods, knowing exactly what to do. My eyes meet Keaton’s for a blip, and I get everything I need to know out of the fire I see brewing behind them. The man is ready to run.
Run and gun. That’s his call. It’s a statement play, and we were working on it at the end of last season—before I got hurt.
I like it. I like it when we’re bold. Tech won’t see it coming.
I count us off at the line, then take the shotgun snap, rolling the ball in my hands as I bound on my feet. Our pocket holds, but Keaton needs more time, so I run to the right, opposite of him. Blocks are breaking down, but I’ve bought myself just enough time, and when Keaton passes our forty, I let the ball sail from my hand. I avoid the late hit and fold my hands on top of my helmet as I utter, “Come on baby. Come on baby.”
The ball lands in Keaton’s hands over his shoulder, his stride not missing a beat, and he leaves the Tech corner in the dust.
“That’s a Wildcat touchdown!” The announcer bellows the words, letting them take up space and hover in the air, along with the roar from our home crowd. I rush to Keaton and meet him midfield for a celebratory chest bump, then run to the sidelines where I get another from Shad and Bryce. Coach pats my back as our field goal unit heads out to make the score seven.
My eyes snap to the scoreboard for a mental picture, then I jog down the sideline to Reed and leap into him one more time.
“That’s how it’s done, son!”
My face hurts from my wild, out-of-control smile. Son. That’s my dad talking through him. With him.
I find Peyton’s waiting gaze a second later, as she kicks and smashes her red and blue poms together. Her bright red lips—candy red, so I’ve learned—blow me a kiss, and I catch it and flatten it against my chest before returning to my brothers to do it all again.
Despite Bryce’s prediction, he does get in the game for the final play before the half. I manage to get us to the one-yard line, and Coach sends him in to punch it in for the score. His body cuts through the Tech line with ease, and when he rushes to me, I give him the same dues he gave me.
“Nobody better, Legs! Nobody better!”
He laughs hard, but embraces his nickname, jumping up and pumping a fist in the air.
We head into the locker room up fourteen to zero, having held off two good drives for the lead. My lungs feel fresh, my muscles primed, as if I haven’t touched the field at all, let alone played an entire half. I’m sure it will hit me tomorrow, or tonight when I finally collapse in bed. But right now? I’m high on the game.
“What did I tell you? That’s how it’s done! Welcome to Wildcat football, gentlemen. Glad you showed up!” Coach claps us into order, and we all take seats and hydrate while the staff goes through the few things they saw us miss on defense. Bryce, Shad, and I move off to the side to get some looks at weaknesses Coach Skye picked up in the booth. Tech is slow on the right, which means the third quarter might be a good time to get our running game going. They’ll be guarding Keaton hard, might even double team him after the yards we’ve put up today. So we’ll see what our running back Dickerson can do. He was born to run, and I think Whiskey can find him a hole to burst through and score. Coach leaves us to break it down, and I count us off to, “Bear down!” one more time.
The jog out to the field at half always has less energy, but for some reason, this time the tunnel feels thick with silence. I slap the side of my helmet, wondering if it’s me, and push my helmet up, resting it on my forehead as I enter the field.
The band isn’t playing, but that could be because they’re still climbing into their section after the half-time show. They always play, though. Always. They’d play us on from the line to the bathrooms if they had to.
Something’s wrong.
My head pivots to my right, to the Tech sideline, and I barely register the flash of red and blue before my focus zooms to Reed, pacing with his hands folded over his head.
Peyton.
I push my helmet from my head and race across the field, my cleats digging up turf as I lunge forward, angry that my feet aren’t fast enough. I pass Reed and move right up to the stretcher that my whole world is strapped to, her neck locked in place, her eyes wildly searching the sky as tears pour down her temples.
“Peyton!” Her name comes out as a scream, and her eyes dash to me in a breath.
“I’m okay, Wy. It’s okay. I’m okay! Win for me. Please. I’m okay!”
Nothing about her looks okay. And the tear stains would say otherwise. The candy red is smeared across her mouth and onto her chin, from who knows what or why. Her eyes blink uncontrollably, as the rest of her lies still, every bit of her strapped to a gray, aluminum gurney. I push through the emergency workers enough to grip her hand, but she slips away before squeezing me back and I’m left with nothing but the faint feel of her fingertips on mine as they hoist her into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors.
I turn into her father’s chest, and he hugs me to him.
“She’s going to be okay. It was a fall, but she’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” he repeats, and I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince more—him, or me.