The bus pulls up alongside me. Posters with GO BOBCATS decorate the sides. “Gotta go, Tuck. My team’s here. I’ll call you later. Miss you, bro.”
He’s still talking when I get out of the vehicle.
In the pouring rain, one of the Collinwood players, a big defensive baller, tackles my backup quarterback, shoving him down in a pit of mud. A late hit.
“These refs are a joke!” Skeeter says as the Collinwood crowd does the wave to cheer on their team. “They’re not calling shit!”
My guy stumbles to his feet and shakes his head.
I call a time-out, our last one. We’re on our third down with ten seconds left on the clock until the end of the game. We’re down by six, and my frustration rises. I hate the early rainfall that ruined the field. I hate that I can’t play my star players.
Mud smears the players’ uniforms as they jog over to the sideline.
“Put Toby in!” someone on our side yells.
“Yeah, Coach!” another person calls. “And Bruno!”
I ignore them, not even turning around.
Skeeter stops his pacing and stalks over to me. “Should we?”
I glower. “No.”
He nods and joins the huddle, slapping the guys on the back.
“Okay, what’s the play?” Skeeter says. “Hail Mary?”
My backup quarterback’s eyes flare. He’s a freshman, a good player, but he can’t throw that far.
Rain pelts us, and I tug my hat down. “We’re on the fifty, and that’s what the defense will expect.” I pause. “Let’s do a hook and lateral.”
The players gape. “Coach?” comes from one of them. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve done it in special teams practice.” My tone radiates confidence, but there’s a knot in my gut. It’s a complicated play that depends on everyone being in the right place at the right time.
I lean in. “We haven’t lost a game yet. And you know why?”
“Our heart!” one of them calls.
I nod.
“Win the heart, win everything!” they say in unison.
From the bench, Toby and Bruno and Milo come into the huddle and encourage their backups. They form a circle with their arms around each other. Bruno leads them as they yell our motto.
I slap the backup quarterback on the shoulder pads. “Shotgun formation—three wide receivers on the right, tight end on the left, and the running back is next to you. Fake that big pass. You got this!”
My hands are on my hips as the center snaps the ball. The wide receivers spring to the end zone on the right, and it looks like a perfect long-pass opportunity for the backup. The tight end fakes blocking, then runs fifteen yards down the middle of the field. The ball sails to him, and the Collinwood defensive players run toward him. Before he’s tackled, the tight end throws a backward pass to the running back, who’s alone on the left side. He dashes for the end zone, nearly thirty yards away. I stiffen as a Collinwood defensive player figures out the play and runs to tackle him. Skeeter jumps up and down, waving his arms as our guy runs down the field. From the other side, the opposing coaches yell out what’s going on, but . . .
My running back hits the end zone.
Yes!
Our fans cheer as our kicking team runs out.
“We still need one point,” I say under my breath.
The kick juts into the sky and splits the goalpost.
Elation rolls over me, and I shut my eyes.
The buzzer goes off, and Skeeter runs for me and attempts to pick me up, then gives up and laughs.
“Another win in the books!” he yells as the crowd and local reporters rush the field.
I shake the opposing coach’s hand, then give a few statements to the media, then fight through them. I stop at the entrance to the locker room. Underneath an overhang, spinning a closed umbrella, is Nova.
Her hair is damp, her cheeks flushed. She’s wearing tight jeans and a Bobcats jersey she picked up in town. She gives me a blinding smile, and my heart skips a beat. She walks toward me, and I pick her up and twirl her around.
“Wow. Is this part of the plan?” she says on a laugh.
“If Jimmy can do it, I can too,” I murmur in her ear.
“No one expected the hook and lateral,” she says as I ease her down, my arms wrapping loosely around her waist.
I dig that she knows the plays. “It’s been a long time since a girl waited for me after a game.”
“Oh.”
“I like it,” I murmur.
“Is everyone staring at us?” she says, her fingers toying with the ends of my hair that stick out from my hat.
“Hmm.” Reporters are lingering, fans and parents waiting to see the players. “Pretty sure there’s some photos being taken. Hope you don’t mind being on the front page of the Blue Belle Gazette.”
“Poor people. They have no clue how devious you are.”