I don’t know what comes over me, but I feel like ranting. Ranting like wildfire.

“I don’t get it. I mean, he told me he loved me and

“I don’t get it. I mean, he told me he loved me and then just disappeared. How could he? We’ve been best friends forever and now he can’t even talk to me?

What the hel ?”

“I bet he’s just scared,” Carrie says.

“I’m sure he’l be back to normal soon,” Marie adds.

“He stares at you al the time in class. He misses you too.”

“JJ says Henry just needs to work through this himself.” I hesitate before adding, “It’s so much easier to talk to you guys about this stuff.”

“You talk to JJ about your love life?” Carrie exclaims.

“JJ, the guy who ate a six-foot-long meatbal hoagie in half an hour on a dare from Carter?” Marie says before scoring another goal. “Are you crazy?”

I laugh. I love writing in my journal, but I have to admit, talking with these girls is pretty cool.

Footbal player or cheerleader—doesn’t matter.

We play foosbal until the pizza comes, and then the three of us sit in front of the television and watch some crappy show where B-list Hol ywood stars race around the world. Surprisingly, Marie and Carrie trash the show more than I do. How did I never realize that girls can have just as much fun, and have the same kind of fun, as guys do?

nly father, redux

Pregame ritual:

Lounge on couch

Lower my pulse

Love love love the game

Play hard in my mind

Picture myself winning

Pray for fumbles

(by the other team, of course).

Not part of the pregame ritual:

Dad.

No way no how

Never has been

Never will be—

Until today.

He showed up in the basement

Wielding a DVD

A DVD of me, my film.

I sucked back tears

Football heroes shouldn’t cry

Not even today.

The State Championship

The night is cold; cigarette smoke and the scent of coffee waft through the crisp air. I’m bouncing up and down on my toes, trying to get warmed up. I wring my hands and, one at a time, I shake my feet, loosening up my ankles.

A quadzil ion reporters are taking pictures of me. Tons of col ege coaches are here, but none are from Alabama. Mark Tucker isn’t here either. Asshole. The great Donovan Woods is here, sitting in the front row of the stands with Mom, Mike, and Jake Reynolds. The Tennessee head coach is with them, undoubtedly here to take a look at Ty, if he gets to play.

When I glance at Dad, he smiles and waves. Um, okay? I smile back at him, loving him for spending a whole hour with me this afternoon, watching film. Film!

Jake Reynolds yel s, “Looking hot, Jor!” and whistles. I shout, “You’d better not mess up my concentration or I’l bust your kneecaps, perv!”

Jake laughs.

Carrie and Marie come jogging up to me, their short red and black skirts whipping around in the wind.

“Jordan!” Marie says, “Who’s the hot guy sitting with your family?” She peers over at Jake, who winks at her, nudges Mike, and points at Marie’s butt. My bro shakes his head and goes back to eating his popcorn.

“Trust me,” I reply, making a gagging noise. “Don’t waste your time.”

“I’m not interested,” Marie says, putting her pompoms under an arm so she can examine her fingernails, which look freshly painted. “Kristen was asking me who he is.”

I pause, then burst out laughing. “Oh. Wel , they’re perfect for each other! I’l introduce them after the game. Maybe he’l stop bothering me if he gets someone new to harass.”

“And then maybe Kristen would stop being obsessed with Ty,” Carrie says, rol ing her eyes.

“Sounds like a win-win for al of us. So, did you talk to Carter?” I ask Carrie.

She smiles so hard I think she might faint. “He asked me out for next Friday night.”

“Details!” Marie says.

“He’s cooking dinner for me and his parents, and then he’s taking me to a jazz concert thing at the Opryland Hotel in Nashvil e.”

I feel this strange urge to jump up and down and giggle but decide to say, “That’s cool. Very romantic,”

and pat Carrie’s shoulder instead.

“Listen, Jordan,” Marie says. “You should try the Statue of Liberty play you did at practice the other day.”

I gaze up at the announcer’s booth at the top of the bleachers and rub my hands together, trying to keep them warm. “You know, I bet they’re thinking I’l bomb it to Henry first thing.”

“Right,” Marie replies, nodding.

“What are you guys even talking about?” Carrie says, sighing, then laughing.

“You’l see,” I say, grinning.

“Captains!” the referee shouts.

“Gotta jet,” I tel the girls before turning to run out onto the field.

“Good luck, Jordan!” they cal out, jumping up and down and waving their pompoms.

JJ and I run out to the fifty-yard line, and when I turn to find Carter, I see him walking over to Carrie. She reaches up and gives him a hug, probably for luck, but then he picks her up and kisses her in front of the then he picks her up and kisses her in front of the entire crowd. Everyone starts clapping and cheering for them, including me and JJ. Henry’s grinning at them too.

Coach throws his clipboard on the ground and yel s,

“Carter, get your ass on the field!”

Pul ing his helmet on, Carter jogs out to us, and both JJ and I shove him around a bit. “Thanks for joining us, hot lips,” JJ says.

We’re playing the game at Vanderbilt University, and since we have the better record, Woodbridge High cal s the toss. They say heads. It lands on tails. I choose to receive the kick.

I run back to the sidelines, meeting Henry as he goes out to return the kickoff. We knock fists, then he knocks fists with Carter and JJ. I shove thoughts of Henry from my mind—I need to get in the zone, so I turn and look at the Woodbridge bench. A team from Western Tennessee, we’ve never played them before, and neither did my bro. I’ve never seen them play either. But I’ve done my homework.

The quarterback doesn’t have a great arm, but he’s quick and he’s smart. He knows how to direct the field, but he carries the bal more than anything. I told Carter to focus on containing the QB, or he’l run it. Carter loves to sack the quarterback, but we can’t afford to have him miss, because if the QB escapes, I don’t think anyone on our team has the speed to stop him except Henry. And Henry can’t play both wide receiver and defensive back. Besides, he’s too thin to play defense.

Speaking of Henry, I also know the Woodbridge kicker has a much more powerful leg than most high school players. “Henry!” I yel when he’s almost into position at the Woodbridge end zone. He sprints back over to the sidelines.

“Yeah?” he says, springing up and down, trying to keep his muscles warm.

“You know about this dude, right? This kicker?”

He lifts his helmet a little, and I see him smiling, his green eyes twinkling. Fog spil s out of his mouth.

“Obviously, Woods. Why the hel do you think I was playing so far back?”

“Just checking.”

He nods toward the stands. “So where are the Alabama coaches?”

I fiddle with my chinstrap and shrug. “Not here, I guess.”

“Not here?” he exclaims. “But this is the last time they’l get to see you play this year.”

I bite into my upper lip as it dawns on me that unless I do what Dad says and look at some other options, this may be the last time I ever real y get to play. The last time I ever huddle under hundreds of lights and smel the freshly painted yard lines and hear fans cheering. The last time I ever throw my perfect spiral in a game.

“Henry?”

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “Remember that time I was searching for crickets at your game, and the bal went out of bounds and I threw it back to you?”

“Yup,” he says with a grin.

I return the smile. “Were you mad that I took your position?”

“Course not. I could see how much you loved playing bal …and that made me love the game even more. I’ve always loved catching your passes.”

“If Michigan asked you to join their team, but then, like, made it clear you weren’t going to get to play, would you stil wanna go there?”

He pul s his helmet al the way off and stares at me.

“No way. I want to play bal . And if that’s why Alabama isn’t here tonight, then it’s their loss.” He pats my elbow. “You can do better, and you know it.”

“Henry!” Coach yel s. “Could I trouble you to receive

“Henry!” Coach yel s. “Could I trouble you to receive the kickoff, or should I send JJ out to do it?”

Henry runs backward onto the field, staring at me as he puts his helmet back on.

I jog to the benches, where I stand between JJ and Carter as Woodbridge gets ready to kick off.

Ty comes up behind me and whispers, “Henry knows about the kicker, right?”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. It’s my job to captain this team, not Ty’s. He stil doesn’t get that?

“Good,” Ty replies.

Woodbridge kicks off and Henry catches the bal . Sprinting, he makes it to the thirty-yard line before he’s tackled. We al scream and celebrate, yel ing Henry’s name.

“Woods,” Coach says, “Take it up the gut.”

“Got it, Coach.” To see how good the Woodbridge defense is, Coach wants to test them by running the bal up the middle.

I jog out to the thirty and huddle with the guys. “Statue of Liberty to Bates.” We al clap our hands once and break. JJ hikes the bal to me, I take three steps back and with my right hand, I pretend to throw the bal to Henry, who’s running up the right side of the field. This causes most of the defense to change direction, and when they do, I hand the bal off with my left hand to Bates, who grabs it and darts up the middle of the field. The Statue of Liberty trick only works occasional y, but with this experiment, I can see that the defense is expecting me to pass every chance I get. Bates makes it eleven yards before getting tackled.

We run up to the line and I yel , “Blue fifty, red twenty, blue fifty, red thirty!” Red thirty is the cue. JJ hikes the bal and I throw it down the field to Higgins. A cornerback is al over him, and Higgins misses the bal and crashes to the ground. Incomplete. Damn it. The Woodbridge defense might be better than I thought. If we want to score, Henry’s our best chance, but the defense is doubling up on him.

We huddle. “Post route to Henry. Take a hard left at the twenty-yard line,” I say. Henry claps his hands. JJ

hikes the bal , and Henry takes off down the field so fast he confuses the Woodbridge defensive line. At the twenty, a cornerback catches up to Henry, but Henry takes a quick left and catches my perfect pass and darts off. Taking huge strides, he barely beats the cornerback to the end zone.

Touchdown! I jump and yel and rip off my helmet. I pump my fist as we jog back to the sidelines, where I grab Henry by the jersey. “Nice!” I say.