The Game You Play (Rixon Raiders 2)

“And what are we?”

“Family.”

“And what are we gonna do?” Asher grinned at me, cocky motherfucker.

“Win.”

“I said what are we gonna do?”

“WIN!”

“Damn right we are,” Coach punched the air with his clipboard and yelled, “Now get out there and show me what you’re made of.”

As we spilled from the locker room into the stadium tunnel, we sounded like a stampede, an army rushing into war. Flames licked my insides; hunger for the win coursing through my veins. I pulled on my helmet as we jogged onto the field, crashing through the cheerleader’s banner like a powerful wave. The crowd was on their feet, cheering and yelling our names. The sheer force of their collective voices slamming into me. Whatever it takes by Imagine Dragons rose above the noise, igniting the whole place into a frenzy. This is what I lived for. On this sacred place, under the bright Friday night lights, I was the best. Worshipped like a god and revered like a star. I was an above average student, knew my way around an algebra textbook, knew my Shakespeare from my Miller, but out here… out here I was home.

I took a second, inhaling deeply, relishing the smell of freshly cut grass, letting my eyes run over the four-thousand-strong crowd. Four years, I’d played football here. Four years, I’d celebrated wins and defeats, although not many. Four years of blood, sweat, and tears. I was ready, so ready, for the next step in my football career. The NCAA. One step closer to the ultimate dream: The NFL. But I knew there was something about this time, senior year at high school. I’d grown from a boy into a man on this field and I would never forget my time playing under Coach Hasson, with guys I considered my brothers.

“Yo, QB, you good?” Asher yelled, and my head whipped over to him. I gave him a nod, jogging over to the rest of the guys. Anticipation rippled around us, the air crackling with excitement. It was addictive; better than any synthetic high.

“Hey, Jase.” Grady flicked his head over to where Millington were huddled. “Looks like you’ve got a new fan club.”

One of their players was glaring over at me. I stood taller, tipping

my chin slightly, sending him a silent ‘fuck you’. He narrowed his eyes, pointing his finger at me before dragging it across his throat.

“Yo, Coach?” I asked one of our assistant coaches. “Number twenty-three. What position is he playing?”

“Linebacker,” he said warily. “Should I be concerned?”

“Nah, Coach. Just wondered.”

He gave me a pointed look. “No bullshit out there, okay?”

“Did I hear someone say bullshit?” Coach Hasson called us in. “Listen up. Millington came here to win. If they don’t, they can kiss a shot at the play-offs goodbye. So that means they’ll be gunning for blood. Your blood. You hear me?” We nodded. “They’re desperate and desperate men will do anything to get the win. Keep your cool and don’t get dragged into their games. That goes for you too, QB.”

“Yes, Sir.” My eyes flicked over to Millington. Like us, they were now huddled around their coach, who was no doubt telling them to use every trick in the book to get the win they so desperately needed to keep their play-off dream alive.

The referee interrupted Coach’s pep talk to inform us we needed to call the toss. I jogged out into the middle of the field with Cam and Asher flanking my side where we met the Millington players head on.

“Since they’re the visiting team, the toss goes to Millington. What’ll it be, Captain?”

“Heads,” their captain said, as we all crowded in to watch the referee toss the coin into the air.

Tails. Eat shit. I grinned at him and then at number twenty-three who had come out to support his captain.

“It’s your call, Raiders.”

“We’ll kick-off.” I wasn’t giving these fuckers even an ounce of breathing room.

“Sounds good. I expect a clean game. Captains, keep your players in check, and let’s play us some football.”

Asher and Cameron began to jog back to our team, but I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder. Number twenty-three was jogging backward, his eyes fixed right on me, and even through his helmet, I didn’t miss the words he mouthed.

Thatcher sends his love.

“Run, run,” the whole crowd seemed to echo my words as Cameron took off with the ball, ducking and dodging the sea of orange and black players racing toward him.

“Motherfucker,” I roared as he got tackled by a huge defensive end, his body slamming against the ground with a resounding thud. Right outside the end zone as well.