“You want to find a sports bar and grab dinner? Cubs are on at eight.”
Eight is when Maisy and I would have had tutoring if I hadn’t quit on her. “I should do homework,” I say guiltily.
“On a Friday?”
“Gotta get to sleep early anyway. A little math will get me there faster.”
Back home in my room, I settle down at my desk with my laptop and some printouts Maisy gave me, but I can’t find anything to write with, despite tearing apart my backpack and desk. I try to read through the notes on my laptop, and when my mind drifts to tomorrow’s game, I bust out headphones and open up the binaural beats app I keep hearing helps with concentration, but it does nothing for me. The words I read refuse to stick in my brain. I sigh and look up at the ceiling. No wonder my grades suck.
Lucky for me, the only thing that really matters is football, and I never zone out watching film. On my phone, I log in to my account through the Shafer Athletics site, pull up the film my coaches want me to watch, and sit back to study it. It’s a long road between here and a winning season, a Heisman Trophy, and a top draft spot. Might as well start now.
FIVE
reeve
Saturday dawnswith a crisp breeze in the air, the kind that tells me even though it’s technically still summer, Mother Nature is pumped for football season.
It’s our first home game, we’re up against one of the few teams that beat us last season, and I feel phenomenal as we step out onto the field. I can’t say I’ve ever forgotten how much I love football Saturdays, but if I had, the walk over to the stadium would have been all the reminder I needed. All over campus, the air is thick with the scent of cigarettes and smoked meats, drunk fans with painted faces are shouting and celebrating and spilling beer, and bass-heavy music blares from the trucks and RVs decked out in Shafer red and white.
Maybe it’s that particular concoction working its way into all of us that makes our win feel so damn easy. My passes are flawless, we’re manhandling them all over the field, and even with Lorenzo—one of our best linebackers—still out, our defense makes theirs look like a bunch of chumps.
After a shower and a brief press conference, I head for the expansive parking lot south of the stadium for the family tailgate. Plenty of football parents tailgate for every home game—and even some out of town for the diehards—but since I was a freshman, they’ve had a tradition of gathering for the home opener and putting together the most impressive spread possible.
I catch sight of Cam’s mom, Minnie, right at the front of the parking lot under the shade of a row of honey locust trees. As usual, her setup looks like something out of a magazine—a long table covered in a red tablecloth; neatly stacked plates and cups; napkins printed with our Red Phantom logo; and an array of hot pans and matching white ceramic dishes filled with food, all of it catered but some of which—crowd favorites like buffalo chicken sliders, pimiento cheese spread, and bourbon pecan brownies—she pretends she made herself. Cam and I know the truth, but we don’t dare spill the secret and dampen her spirit. She absolutely lives for football season and all the traditions that go with it.
“Oh, Reeve’s here! Hi, sunshine!” Minnie waves but waits for me to come to her as she holds court between her red table and her sparkling white SUV. When I reach her, she wraps me in a hug that envelops me in her familiar flowery perfume. “How are you feeling, hon? You’re feeling okay?” She pats her way down my arm like she’s checking for damage.
“Real good. Perfect.”
“Of course.” She smiles proudly. “You looked wonderful out there. Oh, I just can’t tell you how thrilled I am that the season is finally here! I have to say, I have a good feeling about what you boys are going to accomplish this year.”
Minnie always has a good feeling about Cam’s and my football careers. If you ask her, we’re the greatest athletes to ever grace Shafer Field, not to mention the most polite, generous, handsome, and intelligent. Not that I have any reason to argue. “I think so too. You just make sure that ring stays where it belongs.” I squeeze her hand, the one with the delicate rubyring on her middle finger, the one she wears every game day and that she swears up and down is our good-luck charm.
“Always,” she pledges with a demure smile.
Behind her, a group of girls in Shafer hats and T-shirts approaches. I spot Lenni among them, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m searching the group for Jade’s green eyes while a jolt of anticipation hits me. I don’t know why—I don’t even want the girl here. I can’t stand Jade or her holier-than-thou attitude or her world-class grudge-holding skills. Lucky for me, she’s nowhere in sight.
Minnie glances over her shoulder before turning back to me with a knowing smile. “You go off and find your friends and sample the food. And then come back and tell me how much better mine is.” She winks and pushes me out into the parking lot.
I make my way down the line, chatting with teammates and their parents, listening to predictions about our season and our conference, sampling food here and there. Nobody asks about my parents. By now, all the families present know better than to ask if my mom and dad are here—there’s never been a yes to that question.
Lorenzo catches up with me, and we head over to his parents’ car, where his mom, Gina, gives me an enthusiastic hug and walks me through the options on her table: ricotta meatballs, stromboli, eggplant caponata, and Italian rainbow cookies, to name a few. If anyone asks, Gina’s is the second-best spread at any tailgate, but secretly she’s neck and neck with Minnie.
After tasting a little bit of everything, I find Cash and Maisy arguing over where to do family dinner tonight as they linger behind their dad’s pickup truck. Mr. and Mrs. Hartnell don’t bother with a table like most parents. They just open the tailgate of the truck, set out some beers and bags of chips, and callit a day, more interested in making the rounds and chatting than fussing over food.
Mr. Hartnell has me by the arm and is lobbing questions at me about my thoughts on the draft next year when I glance over at the bearded man clad in a stark-white button-down walking behind a row of cars. I recognize him instantly: the reporter who interviewed me a few weeks back and who I can tell from today’s postgame press conference has taken a liking to me. I’m blanking on his name but he’s exactly the kind of guy who’s likely to be voting for a Heisman Trophy winner in a few months.
I excuse myself from Cash’s dad and cut between two cars to reach the press guy. As soon as he sees me, he stops and grins. “Mr. Atkins,” I greet him after a quick glance at his press pass. “Nice to see you in these parts. Can’t resist the call of pork cooked over a portable grill, can you?”
He chuckles. “You’ve got me there. Hey, great game today.”
“Thanks. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Oh, I wish, but I couldn’t. I’m still on the job.”
“You sure? You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Mrs. Forrester’s lemon sheet cake.”
“Don’t tempt me!” he says affably. “One of these days when I’m off the clock.”
