“Just making sure some hot blonde isn’t taking up headspace you need for running plays out there.” He nodded in the direction of the field as he adjusted the pads on the fronts of his thighs, his nonchalant movements at odds with the warning in his voice.
Right then Callahan joined us. “Heard Chessly’s not too impressed with you. You were a gentleman like you promised last night, yeah?”
I didn’t hold back on the sarcasm. “I kept my hands to myself, Dad.” My eyes took a tour of my brain that I made sure my teammates didn’t miss.
“She shot him down,” Bax helpfully supplied. “Over Tory Miller.”
With an expression of total disappointment, Callahan said, “Finnegan, Finnegan, you haven’t been listening. Jailbait is toxic. Especially the Tory Miller brand of jailbait.”
Putting my hands up, I said, “I’m getting that.” Standing, I tugged my jersey over my pads, adjusting them beneath it to make sure nothing pinched. “Maybe you could ask your girlfriend what I can do to get back in Chessly’s good graces.”
Callahan shook his head, but he said, “Get a sack in this game and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ladies, stop gossiping and get your asses over here,” Coach Ainsworth interrupted.
Coach Ellis, the Wildcats’ head coach, stood in front of the massive whiteboard at the end of the locker room, opposite the showers. Ainsworth, our defensive coordinator and assistant head coach, stood beside him. Once the whole team was standing in a semi-circle around them, Coach Ellis launched into his pregame speech.
“The Tigers have been down for a few years, but they’ve shown some spark this season. They beat the Trojans on their home turf and gave the Golden Bears a game before they imploded in the fourth quarter. We are not going to give them one second of hope that they can beat us today. Understood?”
He stared hard at every player in the room before we broke into a booming chorus of “Understood, Coach!”
“We are going out onto that field as Wildcats. Wildcats win championships because we give no quarter. Understood?”
Another echoing chorus of “Understood, Coach!” answered him.
“No quarter,” he repeated.
Again the team echoed him loud enough to be heard in the visitors’ locker room.
The senior captains then led us in a rousing chant of “Wildcats! Wildcats! Go! ’Cats! Go!”
As one unit we tugged our helmets over our heads and headed to the tunnel leading out onto the field.
For the next forty minutes, my brain only entertained thoughts of football. But when I strip-sacked the quarterback on the Tigers’ twenty and Bax recovered the fumble, I allowed myself a brief scan of the student section. Not that I truly expected to find Chessly cheering there. At the bonfire, she’d mentioned something about taking Jamaica’s call and staying in the dorms today. Intellectually, I knew she wasn’t at the game, but I hoped she was watching it on TV or online or something. The woman liked football, so maybe my play would impress her.
When I returned to the sidelines, Coach Ainsworth slapped my back with a rousing, “Fuckin’ A, McCabe! Great work on that series.” Turning his attention to my teammate, he added, “Excellent fumble recovery, Baxter. You boys make me look good.”
As I made my way over to the bench, a trainer squeezed some Gatorade into my mouth. I swallowed the mouthful of energy and sat my ass on the cold metal seat. Bax joined me on one side while our nose tackle, Jeremiah Fitzgerald, a.k.a. Fitz, flanked me on the other side.
“It’s good for us when you play angry, Finn.” Fitz laughed.
“It’s good for me when you open holes big enough to drive a truck through. Makes my job that much easier.”
He laughed again. “I’m enjoying having my way with their center. That big ol’ farm kid is too easy.”
“He’s a sophomore, you big bully,” Bax said with a smirk. “You’d better have your way with him.”
Fitz reached behind me to give Bax a good-natured shoulder punch. I might have leaned forward to accommodate him. Bax rubbed his bicep and grinned.
A loud roar interrupted their antics when Mick Patterson, our quarterback, connected on a pass to Callahan. We were off the bench in a second, running out to the edge of the sideline to see our buddy shake off defenders as though his uniform were made of Teflon as he ran the ball into the end zone. He pointed the nose of the ball toward someone in the stands behind our bench—didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who—then tossed the pigskin to the ref while the rest of the offense mobbed him.
When he returned to the sidelines, I fist-bumped him and said, “Thanks for taking advantage of that turnover.”
“My pleasure. Thanks for giving me an easy chance to show off.”
“Yeah, we caught that.” Bax laughed.
Since ESPN was televising the game, following ’Han’s sweet touchdown, we had a media time-out. Coach Ainsworth took advantage by calling the defense into a huddle. “It’s still early, so they’re not giving up on the running game. Fill the gaps. Leave that slippery little son-of-a-bitch of a running back absolutely zero daylight. New set of downs. New game. Get out there and fucking win it.”
