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  5 / MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16—PRACTICE AND SWING SHIFT AT CAFÉ HELEN

  That afternoon, Coach was pretty grumpy and made us run double laps to open practice. Other than that, nothing was different. He had Shane run the first-team offense, and I got the scraps.

  I appealed to Coach Whitson, the offensive coach. “Don’t I need some more reps? What if Shane can’t start Friday?”

  Whitson, who always looked confused, gave me a more dumbfounded look than usual. “Why wouldn’t Shane start Friday?”

  “Well…”

  But he didn’t have the slightest idea what I was talking about. That was clear. So I dropped it. And I had to hand it to Shane, he was throwing lasers, hitting every target. How did he do it when he had been drinking at eight in the morning?

  When I got in, I was throwing pretty well too. I hit Orlando in stride on a long post, but he dropped it.

  “Gotta hold tight to those!” Coach Whitson yelled.

  “Bit more wobble on it than I’m used to,” Orlando said, winking at me.

  “Let’s try it again,” Whitson said. “Jayo, lay it in there this time.”

  Was he serious?

  Meanwhile, Shane and Coach Z were reviewing something on a clipboard. My next pass was short and got picked off.

  “Come on, Two!” Shane yelled.

  God, I hated him.

  Coach Z came to Café Helen that night and sat at the counter. I was surprised, but not because he showed up. It was the only decent restaurant in town, and he had been there before. I was surprised because usually when I saw him out he was with his wife. He was alone this time. He ordered French onion soup and a tall beer. When I came to take away his dirty bowl, he grabbed my arm.

  “I hear you’ve been making noises about Shane not being able to start. Again.”

  “I was just asking, Coach. I want to play, you know that.”

  “You need to get comfortable with your role on this team,” Coach Z said. “You’re not helping us win games if you’re stirring up trouble.”

  “I don’t mean to stir up trouble, Coach.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m the one who’s stayed out of trouble!”

  He thought about that for a second. “Look,” he said. “I know you and Shane have a history. I know you want to play. I appreciate that. But if I hear about you shooting off your mouth again about this stuff, you will regret it. I’ll see to that.”

  He took out his wallet and dropped a twenty on the counter. Then he scooted off his stool and left.

  “It’s impressive,” Dad said that night. We sat on the couch watching TV. He was streaming some documentary about freshwater sharks, and I had told him how the trouble Alfred Bailey predicted never made it downstream. Coach Z had no intention of benching Shane, and there was no sign that Principal Donahue or anyone else was going to do anything about it.

  “Impressive?” I said. “That’s not the word that came to my mind. More like infuriating. More like—this is stupid.”

  “That’s three words.”

  “Well, it’s not impressive.”

  “Zachary is even more protected than I thought,” Dad said. “I mean, I knew this town loves him. I knew he was safe. But this—this is impressive.”

  “And from now on, he can be impressive without me on the team,” I said. “I’m done with this.”

  We watched the TV for a few minutes more, but I could tell Dad was thinking. He wasn’t going to let a statement like that linger for very long. On screen, a guy held a shark about two feet long in his hands. “I need to hold on tight here,” the guy said. “He’ll take a big ol’ bite out of me if he has half a chance.”

  “Maybe,” Dad said, “it’s time to go on the attack.”

  6 / FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20—AWAY GAME VS. THE TIGERS

  “Yo, Ernie!” Shane said, walking toward us in the hall after school. “You best pack a lunch tonight, bro. Don’t let me down.”

  Our opponent the next night was the West High Tigers, a team known to be very physical—and dirty. They’d poke at your eyes, chop block, you name it. And they had a couple very big, very fast defensive ends, which meant Shane would be facing more pressure than he’d faced…maybe ever. It also meant Ernie would get a lot more snaps, because Coach Z wanted the tight end to help block on every down.

  Instead of getting conservative, like most teams that played the Tigers, we planned an air raid: lots of passes. That put a lot of pressure on Ernie and the rest of the line to keep Shane upright.

  Shane was as excited as I’d ever seen him. He rubbed his big hands together like a B-movie villain. “All of Ohio will be watching us after tonight, boys,” he said. “It’s gonna be a wake-up call.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ernie said. “I’m up for this.”

  Shane turned to me. “What up, Two? You ready to learn something?”

  “Whatever, man,” I said.

  “No, seriously. I’ll be putting on a clinic.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “I think you’re putting on a clinic in how to, like, not have rules apply to you!”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Two.”

  “Well, too bad.”

  “‘Too bad?’ Are you serious right now? You sound like a preschooler.”

  Which was true. I said stupid stuff sometimes when I got nervous or angry.

  Shane shook his head. “Hey, maybe if you were more of a man, your dad wouldn’t have turned to an ‘alternative lifestyle.’ Maybe he wouldn’t have AIDS.”

  “He has HIV,” I said. “Not AIDS.”

  Shane just laughed. I wanted to punch him—knock the pride out of his voice. But I didn’t have the courage. I never got in fights, and I knew I’d get my butt kicked. As Shane walked away, fist-bumping other guys on the team, Ernie said, “Wow, what a creep.”

  Then I had an idea.

  “Ernie,” I said. “Want to do me a favor?”

  Near the end of the first half of the Tigers game, Coach Z’s plan was working pretty well. Shane was already thirteen for sixteen, with two TD passes and a couple big scrambles. Ernie and the guys were doing a great job of keeping him clean, and Coach Z was calling screens, slants, outs—even a couple bombs. The Tigers D-line was getting frustrated—they weren’t used to being manhandled like that. You could hear them bicker with each other between plays.

  We were in the Tigers’ house, and we were in their heads too. Everything was clicking for us.

  With only a few ticks left on the clock before the half, Coach Z called for a draw. We had a good lead, and he was playing it safe with time running down. Plus, maybe we could spring Devon, the running back. The Tigers hadn’t seen much of him all game.

  But Shane got greedy. He called an audible at the line, Orlando ran a post, and Shane launched it his way—into a swarm. A defensive end got a fingernail on Shane’s elbow as he threw, the ball came out a tiny bit wrong, and it got picked off. The safety ran it all the way back as time expired, and we went into the locker room up only seventeen–seven instead of seventeen–zero.

  “What were you thinking, Hunter?” Coach said. “There were three DBs back there! You think you’re invincible? You don’t throw into triple coverage!”

  “Sorry, Coach, I thought I had him. Orlando and me had something good going all night. I thought I had him.”

  “Listen,” Coach said, “when we have four seconds before the half and a seventeen-point lead, you need to run the play I call. Got that?”

  “Got it, Coach.”

  Coach had good things to say to everyone else—especially Ernie.

  “Erickson, your guy hasn’t even sniffed the backfield all night. I think he’s gonna have a seizure out there if you keep shutting him down like that. I’d like to see that, actually. Keep it up.”

  Ernie nodded, and Coach continued.

  “Gentlemen, listen. We’re up by ten. This is a Tigers team that thinks it has a shot at winning the division. They don’t understand that it’s our division. They’re o
ver there feeling pretty good—after that pick-six, they’re in this thing. They’re gonna come out hungry. Let’s not let them get any momentum back, boys. Let’s go out there and show them whose division it is!”

  The Tigers had possession at the start of the second half. They ran a long, methodical drive that took up half the quarter: a halfback run off-tackle for six yards. A weak-side sweep for eight. QB keeper for six. After they got the TD, it was a three-point game.

  “Let’s get it back, boys!” Shane yelled after we took the kickoff out to the twenty-eight yard line.

  Ernie gave me a slight nod as the offense took the field. Coach called a pitch to Devon that got us six yards, then a quick slant that got six more, and the Tiger defense got no pressure at all on Shane.

  On first and ten, Coach called for a longer pass. Shane went into a seven-step drop and looked downfield—until one of the big Tigers defensive ends flattened him.

  Shane hit the ground with a thud, somehow holding onto the ball. The crowd exploded in cheers. The defensive end got up, howling and pumping his fist. Shane stayed down. Ernie stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the ground.

  While Coach ran out to check on Shane, I grabbed a ball and started warming up with Brian Norwood, a linebacker. The Tigers defense was all high fives and laughter.

  After a few seconds, Shane got up and started walking. The crowd applauded politely—they were impressed he was still breathing after that hit. Coach called me over and told me the play. A simple handoff to Devon, off-tackle.

  I huddled the guys together, told them the play, and lined up under center. It felt good. The West High crowd was on its feet. They smelled blood. So did the Tigers defense, snarling and drooling like animals.

  I took the snap and handed the ball to Devon, who ran into a brick wall. After losing eight yards on the sack, we lost two more on the botched run. All of a sudden, we were third and twenty on our own eighteen. It felt like the Tigers had all the momentum.

  Coach called timeout, and we came off the field. Shane was playing catch with Brian. He looked fine.

  “Shane’s back in,” Coach said, patting me on the head. He started telling the guys what play they’d run: a screen to Ernie. “We’ll get a chunk of yards back and punt. The defense has to hold.”

  I was barely listening, though. My night was done.

  As the team ran back onto the field and lined up, the West High crowd turned up the volume. Shane screamed out the snap count over the noise. I could see the steam of his angry breath all the way from the sideline.

  As Shane dropped back, Ernie held his block for a second and then released him. He stepped into the flat like he was supposed to, and it worked perfectly. He was wide open. But Shane didn’t throw it. Instead, he ran directly toward the defensive end who Ernie had released, the same dude who had pounded him two plays earlier. He dodged to his right and threw a stiff-arm at the guy that left him grasping at air.

  Once Shane burst around the line, Ernie picked up a block on the cornerback, and he kept on going. A safety hit him square in the hips, but Shane shook it off and picked up another six yards before another safety knocked him out of bounds. It was a twenty-six-yard gain: first down.

  Shane smiled at the Tigers sideline as he trotted back to the huddle.

  The next play, Shane changed Coach’s call again and ran a QB draw right up the middle—into the teeth of the Tiger defense—and picked up nine yards. On second and one, Shane threw that post again, the one that got picked off at the end of the first half. Only this time, he dropped it into Orlando’s arms. Orlando held the football like a baby as he ran all the way into the end zone.

  The crowd was stunned. The Tigers were stunned. Coach was stunned.

  Shane pointed to the defensive end who’d hit him earlier—a hit that seemed like it had happened hours ago—and winked. It was like he was saying, Nothing you do can stop me.

  Nothing.

  7 / FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20—PARTY AT DEVON’S HOUSE

  Ernie and I went to the party that night at Devon’s house. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, even though we’d won thirty-four–ten. And I could tell that Ernie was ashamed at giving up that sack, which made me feel even worse. I’d asked him to do it. We decided we’d just show our faces for a few minutes and leave.

  But right away, Shane started riding me.

  “I hope you took notes, Two! I believe the scout from Ohio State took a few.”

  “Yeah, good game,” I said. I was hoping to avoid a scene because Shane was a born scenestealer. I knew I’d end up looking like a fool.

  This girl Shawna was hanging all over Shane—like literally hanging onto his arm as if she was afraid he’d scramble away.

  Shawna was not his girlfriend, by the way. Shane’s girlfriend was Jenny. Shawna might have been the only girl in school who was hotter than her. Jenny and I were friends because we’d been on the video yearbook staff for three years. I happened to know that she was visiting her grandmother in Minnesota for the weekend.

  Ernie and I started talking to some girls in the kitchen, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about Shane in the other room with Shawna. I kept thinking about all the crap he’d been shoveling at me for the past four years. And then I started thinking about that day we dammed up the creek for our army men, and I started getting kind of upset.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  This girl—her name was Becca—was glaring at me.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Sorry. Uh, why?”

  “Because I asked you a question—like three times!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “The answer is yes.”

  Ernie and the girls laughed.

  “Good,” Ernie said. “You want to know the question?”

  You could hear Orlando and Shane in the other room yelling some rah-rah stuff at each other. Stuff about how we’re going to State this year, how unbeatable we are. Then Shane changed the music. I knew it was Shane because he put on Eminem. It was what he always played.

  “The question was,” Becca said, smiling now, “do you guys want to get out of here? I have some blankets in the car. Let’s go to the lake.”

  “That sounds really good,” I said. “I would love to get out of here.”

  I’d never spoken truer words. I couldn’t wait to leave. And Becca was really sweet. We’d started flirting a couple weeks ago, but we hadn’t gone out or anything—at least not yet.

  But part of me was also making a plan. I was thinking, I wish I could show Jenny what Shane got up to while she was away. She should know how he was making a fool of her.

  I wish I could say I was thinking only about Jenny’s feelings, protecting her dignity. But the truth is I was mostly thinking of myself. I just wanted to get back at Shane.

  The four of us left the kitchen and walked through the living room toward the front door. On our way through, I had my phone out—filming Shane and Shawna on the couch. Just as we were hitting the door, though, Shane saw me.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He stood up. Shawna, whose legs were draped across his, fell onto the floor and dropped her bottle of beer.

  I shoved the phone in my pocket as we walked out the door. Shane caught up and grabbed my shoulder. “What was that all about?” He still had his drink with him. The ice clattered in the plastic tumbler.

  “Nothing, QB1. Nothing at all.”

  “Give me your phone,” Shane said.

  “Nope.”

  “Give it to me now.”

  Becca took my hand. “Let’s go,” she said softly.

  Instead, I punched Shane in the nose.

  I don’t know what came over me. All the weeks of frustration—all the years of frustration—bubbled over all at once.

  Shane stumbled back. Anger coursed through me—it was like I wasn’t in control of my body. I’d never felt that way before.

  Shane set his drink down on a step. I came after him. As he looked up at me, I socked him in the eye
. Becca and her friend screamed, and people poured out of the house to watch. I lunged at Shane again, but he was ready this time. He threw a fist into my gut that doubled me over.

  I couldn’t breathe. That was when Shane reached back and delivered a monster haymaker into my jaw that made me see stars.

  Boom.

  I crumpled onto the ground. Not only was Shane a better quarterback than me, he was a better fighter too. Which I should have predicted, since I’d never been in a fight. I knew he’d been in a lot of them over the years.

  When I opened my eyes, he was standing over me. I thought he was going to kick me, but Ernie stepped in front of him.

  Shane lost it. “You’re just my backup!” he screamed. “You got nothing on me!”

  It was like he couldn’t believe somebody had dared to challenge him. By hitting him, I’d broken some kind of social agreement: Nobody was supposed to mess with him. Ever.

  He was hysterical.

  And, in all his anger, he seemed to have forgotten about the recording of him and Shawna. He kept screaming at me. Ernie kept on guard in case he attacked again. But it didn’t seem like Shane wanted to fight anymore. He was too far gone into his angry fit.

  When Shane turned to pick up his drink, I pulled out my phone and started recording again. At that point, I didn’t care if he beat me up. I didn’t care if he stole the phone. I was all in. I was going to put an end to his crap.

  He was going down.

  8 / SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21—MORNING PAIN

  The next morning, I felt terrible, but it wasn’t only my dislocated jaw. Something else was eating at my insides.

  Dad was throwing up in the bathroom again, which made me feel even worse. He’d had to come to the hospital and get me last night, when he should have been resting. I was so messed up I didn’t even get up to make his oatmeal.

  He came into my room later on. “I guess you’ll miss practice, huh?”

  I nodded. I wanted to say, “Who cares about practice?” but I had bandages wrapped around my head to keep the jaw from moving. The ER doctor had stuck her thumbs inside my mouth and popped the jaw back in place, which had hurt like crazy in spite of the painkillers.