Chapter Nineteen
A bright smile played across Dad’s face. “Is that—”
“Oh my gosh.” Bailey gasped the instant she saw her. “What are you wearing?”
Calla tried to tamp down the urge to smile, but she couldn’t stop it. Tonight was too special. “It’s a Bulldogs sweater.”
She glanced down at the ivory oversize, cable knit sweater with its large, green letter- B appliqué on the front.
She’d grabbed it from the closet in Ethan’s apartment yesterday in a fit of school spirit after her encounter with Jackson in the kitchen.
The vintage sweater had been her brother’s favorite because it had belonged to Dad back when he’d played for the high school.
“What are you two staring at? It’s homecoming.” She smoothed down the front of the sweater as if wearing it was a perfectly normal thing for her to do when she hadn’t worn a stitch of green and white in years. “What else would I wear?”
Bailey and Dad exchanged an amused glance.
“It pairs well with the boots,” Bailey said, gaze flicking toward Calla’s signature cherry red Luccheses.
Calla cast her a mock glare.
“You look beautiful, honey.” Dad’s voice trembled with emotion as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a tender squeeze.
“Thanks, Dad,” she whispered, and darn it if she wasn’t already getting choked up before the game even started.
She drew in a steadying inhale as the band took to the field for the national anthem and the fight song.
A roar went up from the crowd as Tommy Riess marched onto the turf, dressed in his football uniform while he played his trombone.
The cheers were deafening. Calla wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the stadium so packed before.
The cynical part of her wondered if more people than usual had turned out just to see the spectacle of the Bulldogs playing against their former starters.
But the swell of support said otherwise.
A shiver coursed through her. Tonight felt like a homecoming, not because of the ribbons and cowbells and the smoky scent of the annual bonfire still burning at the town green, but because Bishop Falls had returned to its roots.
Her article about the curse had made a real difference.
Until tonight, she wasn’t sure it had, despite the surprisingly positive reaction she’d gotten from Stan.
She’d quietly gone about her business all week, despite feeling like she was on pins and needles waiting for tonight.
The shift caught her off guard, and all at once, she was overcome with the sort of pride in her community that she hadn’t experienced since she was a little girl balanced on her daddy’s shoulders in these same stands on a Friday night, once upon a time.
Time and again, her gaze found Jackson, standing on the field with his arms crossed, a fiery purpose in the set of his jaw.
Her words hadn’t been the only thing that brought her hometown back to itself.
Nothing about tonight would’ve been possible without Jackson Knight.
She wasn’t sure what they were going to do without him once the season ended.
Don’t think about that. Her chest squeezed tight and she pretended the lump in her throat was a silly reaction to the Bulldogs winning the coin toss down on the field. There are still weeks left of the season.
She very nearly succeeded in that endeavor, because once the game started, there was scarcely time to breathe.
After winning the toss, the school’s new team captains—Mike Davila, Blake Jones and Trevon Matthews—chose to receive.
The Rustwood kicker launched the ball with incredible distance, but when Mike Davila caught it, he returned for an immediate touchdown.
The Bulldogs were on the board within the first seconds of the game, and Calla’s throat already hurt from screaming so much.
Rustwood was a formidable opponent, though. She knew that no matter who won tonight, it would be a hard-fought victory. Their opponent’s coach put Stokes, Collier and Brown in at the top of the first quarter, and it was clear from the start that they were out for revenge.
“Ooh, that was a bad hit.” Bailey winced as one of the refs threw a yellow flag, indicating a personal foul. When he blew his whistle and declared a ten-yard penalty for Rustwood, Watson Stokes removed his helmet and slammed it on the ground. “I’m worried someone is going to get hurt.”
Calla’s hand found hers and squeezed it hard. “It’s going to be okay. Jackson won’t let that happen.”
She wasn’t sure if the reassurances were for Bailey or herself, and she knew that accidents could still happen, no matter who led the team.
But she knew the players were safer with Jackson in charge than they would’ve been with anyone else—particularly Bob Simmons, who prowled the sidelines, tense and jittery, as per usual.
Rustwood got on the board with only a minute left in the first quarter, but the Bulldogs quickly bounced back, scoring their second touchdown at the start of the second quarter.
The dirtier the Rustwood boys played, the more collected and determined the Bulldogs got.
Jackson made sure of it, calling a time out when things got too heated and repeatedly placing a finger to his lips as a reminder to his players to stay calm and keep their cool.
Even as the score flip-flopped back and forth, they kept their focus.
“They’ve got this,” Dad said under his breath as the clock wound down near the end of the fourth quarter with the Bulldogs up by three points. “I can’t believe it. They’re really going to pull this off.”
“Believe it,” Calla whispered, blinking back tears.
But just as she was mentally writing her column for tomorrow’s paper, declaring a surprise victory for the Bulldogs, their new first-string quarterback dropped back and the ball slipped from his grasp as he scanned the field, looking for his receiver.
A Rustwood defender seized on the opportunity, diving for the fumble and snagging the ball just before it hit the ground.
In an instant, he was off, tearing for the end zone. The visitor side of the stadium erupted as he crossed the goal line, catapulting the Roosters into a last-minute lead.
No, no, no. Calla squeezed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Jackson’s crushed expression. She couldn’t take it. She was pretty sure he cared even more about the outcome of this game than the players did.
“What a shame,” Dad said.
She heard Bailey sniffle beside her, and she knew her tender-hearted friend was crying. This wasn’t merely the loss of a single game—it was a loss for the town. Without a win, things would go back to the way they were before. Calla just knew it.
The stands were eerily quiet, the heavy silence confirming her deepest fears.
But then, while her eyes were still closed tight, she heard a lone voice from down on the field.
“Let’s go, Bulldogs, let’s go.” Clap, clap.
Calla’s lashes fluttered open, and her heart swelled at the sight of little Tommy Riess screaming the chant at the top of his lungs.
He’d been riding the bench all night, still sidelined by his injuries.
But now he was standing on top of the metal bench, trying to lead the crowd in the very same cheer they’d used back during the very first game when they’d rallied him to complete his very first touchdown.
“Let’s go, Bulldogs, let’s go,” Dad yelled, pumping a fist in time with the beat.
Bailey joined in next, and before Calla had a chance to remind herself to breathe, the chant echoed all around her.
“Let’s go, Bulldogs, let’s go!”
Her gaze collided with Jackson’s, and even from far away, she could see how moved he was by the support.
He’d put everything on the line for this team, and they were seconds away from losing, proving the Victory Club had been right all along.
But the community was still standing by him and his boys. They still believed.
On the turf, a whistle sounded, and the next play started with dizzying speed. With only a handful of seconds left on the clock, one of the Roosters sacked the Bulldogs’ quarterback, and in the blink of an eye, all hope was lost.
But the crowd kept chanting—so loud that the players didn’t seem to be able to hear whatever play Jackson was calling next.
“Bulldawg Blitz,” he yelled.
The defensive starters still seemed confused, shaking their heads.
“Bulldawg Blitz!” Jackson and Cade screamed at the same time.
The boys nodded, and just before the Rustwood snap, the defensive line scooted closer to the line of scrimmage, throwing their opponents off-balance.
Watson Stokes tripped, and when the ball fell out of his hands, Hunt Collier grabbed at it, but he missed and tumbled to the ground.
For a heart-pounding second, Calla lost sight of the ball, but then a lone figure emerged from the pileup on the field—a Bulldog defender with his head bowed and the ball tucked firmly under his arm, sights set on the home team’s goal post, still a good sixty-five yards away.
All around her, the choreographed chant devolved into a jumble of desperation. “Run! Keep going! You’ve got this!”
“Go!!!” Calla hollered.
The players on the Bishop Falls sidelines were all on their feet, running alongside the field, keeping time with the defender, urging him on. Even Bishop was galloping across the turf—barking his encouragement.
The fans erupted into a frenzy. If the spectators in the stands could’ve carried the kid into the end zone on their backs, there was no doubt in Calla’s mind they would’ve done so. But they didn’t have to, because the player’s foot crossed the line all on its own.
The ref threw his arms in the air.
“Touchdown, Bulldogs.”
* * *
The scene on the field was utter chaos as Calla tried to find Jackson. Confetti covered the Astroturf. Players embraced, tears flowed and, somewhere in the madness of it all, she could hear Bishop yelping at full volume. The Bulldogs had won the game!