Chapter 23 — Run It, Hale （Nora） #2
Beck stepped to the middle, every eye on him, and I felt the pressure like a hand on my own throat.
He tapped two fingers on his left wrist once, breathed in for three counts, let it out slow.
“I don't need paper when I've got the pictures,” he said, clear and steady, and called the first picture play without looking at the wall.
My skin went hot and prickly, and I gripped the table edge. “Again,” Pruitt ordered, and the huddle repeated the call back clean, Ty's deep voice rolling over Marcus's. “Louder,” Pruitt said, and they did, and Beck nodded once. “That's it,” Beck said. “That's the whole thing.”
“Run it back,” Ty said, grinning. “One more time, Picasso. I wanna say the cool part.” Beck called it again without hesitation, and Marcus pounded Ty's shoulder. “You got it?” Marcus asked, and Ty nodded, eyes bright. “I got it,” Ty said. “I actually got it.”
We spilled out to the turf edge in the iron-gray cold, wind cutting through my jacket, and lined up at walk-through speed. Beck called it with his breath fogging, and the guys moved through their marks like they'd run it for weeks. Marcus hit his landmark and turned, grinning wide.
“Filthy,” Ty shouted, jogging back. “That's filthy, Picasso.” Beck's ears went red, and I bit my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
“Hale,” Pruitt called. “Check to the second picture.” Beck didn't blink.
He made the check call on the spot, and the offense shifted like water. “There it is,” Marcus breathed. “Damn.”
I watched with my arms wrapped around my ribs, and without thinking I stepped back until the door-side fence was at my shoulder, the whole field and both gates in view.
Old habit. Beck shifted sideways without a word until his body broke the wind for me.
“I'm fine here if you're right beside me,” I said softly, just for him.
“You're shiverin',” he murmured, low, for me only. “Cold?” I shook my head though my teeth wanted to chatter. “I'm good,” I said. “Watch your guys. I'm right here.” His sleeve pressed warmer against mine. “Stay there,” he said. “Where I can see you.” My chest went tight and hot. “Always,” I said.
Deon sat wrapped in his parka on the bench, his helmet left behind inside with the chinstrap undone, and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“That's my quarterback!” he shouted, and the guys whooped, and Beck's whole face lit up, stunned and bright.
“Let 'em hear it, baby!” Deon yelled. “Loud like you mean it!”
Beck laughed, startled and bright, and called it louder, and Deon clapped, gloves thumping.
“There you go!” Deon shouted. “That's the stuff!” He caught my eye and winked, tired but real.
“He's got 'em,” Deon called to me. “Look at 'em lean in.” I nodded, throat tight.
“They really are,” I called back. My eyes stung from the wind, or maybe not from the wind at all, and I blinked hard and kept watching.
Marisol poked her head out, scarf whipping, and waved me over.
“Table in Room 214 is yours whenever you need it,” she said crisply.
“Just file the hours.” Her eyes flicked to Beck leading the huddle, then back to me, knowing and kind.
Then she looked past me at Beck's call rolling over the field, and her smile went soft.
“Good work, Quinn,” she said, and vanished inside.
? ? ?
Pruitt stood before the picture walls, hands on hips.
“This is really how you see it?” he asked Beck.
“Every snap?” Beck didn't flinch. “Every snap,” he said.
“And the checks?” Pruitt asked. “All of it,” Beck said.
“It's all up here.” Something crossed Pruitt's face that might have been respect.
Then his eyes cut to the corner of the room, where two underclassmen receivers had been muttering all morning with their arms crossed.
Then Pruitt turned to the team, packed shoulder to shoulder, and pointed straight at Beck.
“Hale starts the Frost Bowl,” he said, and the room exploded, Ty bellowing and Marcus pounding the table and Cole grabbing Beck in a headlock.
“He's our guy!” Ty roared. “Let's go!” Marcus pounded the wall. “Picasso! Picasso!”
“Quiet!” Pruitt barked, almost smiling. “We've got work.” Then he jerked his chin at the two receivers in the corner.
“You two. Say it to his face or swallow it. Room hears everything before a Bowl.” One of them flushed red.
“No disrespect, Coach. Just a new system, big game.” “Then learn it,” Pruitt said flatly.
“He's our guy. That's decided.” Deon pushed off the doorframe and crossed to Beck, gripping the back of his neck.
“Told you,” he said. “Win it.” Beck nodded, eyes bright.
“I'll earn it,” Beck said, and Deon stepped back, hands up.
“He's all yours,” Deon told the huddle, and they answered with a roar that shook the windows.
One by one they filed out, pounding Beck's shoulders, and the two receivers came past last before Cole.
The taller one stopped, cleared his throat, and stuck his hand out.
“No static from us,” he said. “Teach us the pictures.
We'll run through walls.” Beck shook it once, hard.
“Deal,” he said. Then Cole came last, helmet dangling.
“Walk with me after?” he asked Beck quietly.
“Routes. And talk.” Beck nodded, and Cole's shoulders dropped.
“Thanks,” Cole muttered, and slipped out with his head higher.
The room emptied until it was me and Beck and the heater's rattle and the walls of pictures, and my legs went watery all at once. I fit his wristband straight where it had twisted, my numb fingers fumbling the green thread. “I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere,” I said, smaller than I meant.
He caught my face gently between his hands and pressed his forehead to mine for one breath in the open doorway, fully clothed, nothing but his hands on my cheeks and mine on his jacket.
“You're warm, and I don't want to move,” he murmured, and I laughed through my nose, that snort I hate, and he smiled against my skin.
One breath. It steadied everything shaking in me.
A whistle blew outside, and Beck stepped back, thumb brushing my cheek. “Stay for routes?” he asked, and I nodded. “Try and stop me,” I said. “Somebody's gotta tell Ty he's running the wrong comic panel.”
“Quinn,” Pruitt called from the doorway. “You built this with him?”
“Every sheet,” I said.
He studied the walls, then me. “Room 214 is yours next semester. Paid coordinator hours. I want this picture system available to every player who needs it.”
The offer hit harder than the cold. Beck squeezed my hand, pride bright in his face. “Told you he'd see it.”
We walked past his open locker, the shelf empty where the decoy had waited. The real notebook rode safe in his bag, all ninety-six pages accounted for.
Pruitt snapped the toothpick and pointed toward the field. “Run it, Hale.” This time, the whole room moved with him.