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My fingers are ice-cold as the anthem is sung. By the time a few of our defensive linemen trot out to do the coin toss, I’m ready to scream.
From the corner of my eye, I see Alder scramble over the bench. He pukes into a half-filled ice bucket, and a few guys jump back.
Cursing, I jog over to him as he throws up again.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glances up at me. “You gonna make it?” I ask.
His expression is blank. “Yup.”
“Here.” I grab a Gatorade and hand it to him. “Refuel and wash your mouth. I’m not smelling that when you call plays.”
He doesn’t smile but takes the bottle and drinks deep. On the field, the kickoff is already underway. Our guy Taylor manages to catch the ball and run to the forty. It’s almost time to go to work.
“What’s the deal?” I ask Cal. “You sick?”
Those frosty eyes of his don’t blink. “You my nurse?”
“I’m your fucking teammate and tight end,” I snap, annoyed as shit. “So answer the fucking question.”
Cal’s tight expression eases. He sets his bottle down and stands. “Right as rain, Grayson.”
Well, fucking great. Sure, whatever. I’m about to yell at him to give me the truth, when Dex walks up. He’s got his helmet in hand and his dark hair is already sticking up with sweat. He takes a long look at Cal then nods. “Stage fright.”
Cal’s eyes go a little wide, but he nods too. “Every time.”
“You get over it?” Dex asks as though this is all just fine and dandy.
“Once I begin to play, yeah.”
“Good enough for me.” Dex puts on his helmet as Cal heads toward our offensive coach.
I just stare after him as I put my helmet on too. “It’s a little freaky how well you read people, Big D.”
Dex’s eyes crinkle behind his face mask. “It’s a gift. And a curse.”
I can’t respond because the whistle has blown.
“Gentlemen.” Coach steps closer, his voice booming yet steady. “I’ve already said everything there is to say. Let’s get `er done!”
“Red Dogs!” we all shout as one. We always do. But this feels rote.
In the huddle we’re subdued. Fucking subdued. Intolerable.
“Hey,” I shout over the noise of the crowd. “With sufficient thrust, even pigs fly.”
They look at me like I’ve grown another head.
“What the fuck, G?” Diaz shouts back with a confused snort.
“We gonna make those pigs fly.” I nod toward the defense taking their positions. “When we knock the shit out of them.”
The guys start to smile but our old spirit isn’t quite there.
Cal’s head snaps up. There’s a gleam in his icy eyes that none of us have seen before. It’s like he’s flicked an internal switch and it’s lighting him up from the inside. “We’re going to win. Because we fucking own this game.”
He isn’t Drew. Never will be. He doesn’t have a shit-eating grin or a cocky attitude. But he has something else: a quiet authority that demands respect.
We all seem to feel it in our bones. Because suddenly we’re all grinning. Energy ripples over the huddle, making us squeeze closer together, rumble with agreement. My old friends, anticipation and adrenaline, return with a vengeance, drawing my balls up tight and lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.
