QB 1 (17 page)

Maybe his belief was just based on something as simple as this: Calvin would make a play when he had to.

Jake knelt in the huddle and called the play. Told the guys they were going to complete the pass and walk off the field winners.

Went with a quick count. Straightened right up. But just as his arm came forward, just as Calvin made his move, the Bulldogs' middle linebacker, number 50, took a step to his left. Either lucky or smart, it didn't matter, he was standing where Calvin was headed, and if Jake threw it anyway, he might pick the ball off the way Bear had just intercepted Brett Conroy's pass.

Jake pulled the ball down and circled back to his right, arm up, looking for somebody, anybody, to throw it to. But Calvin was still jammed in the middle, Roy Gilley had slipped and fallen in the middle of the end zone, and Justice was in the far corner, covered.

And then Jake saw a lane.

Saw that the defense was more afraid that he'd throw than run, the linebackers having backed up, trying to cover everybody at once.

Jake decided he could beat them all to the pylon.

Pulled the ball down, stopped faking the throw, and ran to the five-yard line. Then the three.

Saw a safety coming straight at him, saw number 50 coming from his left. Decided the best thing to do was dive for it, not take a chance on getting hit hard by either one of them, coughing the ball up.

Jake thought:
Let's see if I can fly.

He launched himself toward the pylon, not knowing that number 50 had launched himself at the same time, like some kind of missile in a helmet and pads. Jake never saw him coming, didn't know he was coming until he got hit in midair, felt himself helicoptering around, somehow not twisting around but twisting
over,
which was why he landed on his back, his helmet snapping hard against the turf, the last thing he remembered as the Friday night lights of Cullen Field went out on him.

JAKE NEVER BELIEVED HE'D BEEN KNOCKED OUT. THE DOCTORS
would tell him later it was just hitting the back of his head, even with the protection of his helmet, that made everything go dark on him, even though he could hear another huge cheer come up out of Cullen Field.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Coach McCoy looking down at him, and Coach J, and Nate. And Doc Mallozzi.

But the face closest to Jake belonged to Troy Cullen, looking as scared as Jake had ever seen him, mostly because he'd grown up believing his dad wasn't scared of anybody or anything.

“Dad,” Jake said, “what are you doing here?”

“Where the heck else would I be?” Jake could see the hurt in his face. “My son just got leveled.”

“Dad, I'm okay.”

“That's what I'm down here to find out,” Troy Cullen said in a rough voice. “Was like that boy dropped you out a window 'n' you landed on your head.”

In that moment, Jake realized the football was still in his right hand.

“Did I score?” he said.

“Yeah,” his dad said. “Yeah, you did.”

“I'm okay,” Jake said.

“Course you are,” Troy Cullen said. “You're my son.”

Nobody at Cullen who'd seen the play, nobody who'd talk about it all week on the radio, could believe that Jake had managed to hold on to the ball, not after the hit he took and the way he'd spun around in the air—like John Elway in a Super Bowl one time; Jake had seen the play on the NFL Network—and especially the way he'd landed, no time left on the clock.

Jake?

He still wouldn't be able to believe afterward how fast his dad had made it down out of his seat, where he'd apparently been all game, and onto the field, almost as quickly as the coaches and Doc Mallozzi had.

At home later, when Jake would ask his dad where he'd been before kickoff, Troy Cullen would say, “Can't a man use a restroom?” and Jake would smile.

But for now, out on Cullen Field, the lights still shining bright, his dad let Doc Mallozzi take over. Doc asked Jake if he felt well enough to sit up. Jake told him he thought he did, that he just felt a little dizzy, was all.

Doc and Coach J slowly pulled Jake up to a sitting position, and then Doc started asking him questions, asking him the last thing he remembered, if he remembered the play he'd called, asking him if he'd heard the cheer from the crowd that went up after the refs' arms went up and signaled the touchdown.

Jake said he did.

“How many points you guys score tonight?” Doc asked.

“Enough to win,” Jake said. “Twenty-seven. Unless everyone's waiting for an extra point?”

Doc nodded and shined a light into his right eye, then his left, asking if the light hurt. Jake said, “No. My head hurts a little, is all.”

“A little or a lot?”

“Little,” Jake said. “I'm okay, really. Can I stand now and celebrate with my team?”

Nate and Bear were there, helping Jake slowly to his feet, and it was then that Cullen Field exploded into as big a sound as Jake had ever heard there, for his brother or for anybody else.

He walked between Nate and Bear up the sideline to the Cowboys' bench, his dad right behind him with a hand on Jake's shoulder.

Jake still had the ball under his right arm, the ref having told him before he left the field to keep it, because he'd by-God earned it.

Jake watched the scene play out and wondered if he could be dreaming and wide awake at the same time.

THE HEADACHE BEGAN THE NEXT MORNING WHEN JAKE WOKE
up, and it stuck around.

He should have felt on top of the world. When news came the previous night that Shelby had lost in overtime, Jake went to bed knowing he had quarterbacked the Cowboys all the way back to to playoffs, the sectional final against Sierra that could lead Granger to the state finals.

Yet, sitting in Doc Mallozzi's office Saturday afternoon, Jake felt anything but great. Not only was his head pounding, but Doc had just told him that he would have to sit out next week's game.

It meant that if they lost, Jake had lost his own season by winning last night's game for his team.

“Jake, it's a low-grade concussion,” Doc said. “I can't write it up for Coach McCoy as anything but. And the rules of our league say that if you get even a low-grade concussion, you have to sit out the next week's game.”

Jake said, “I feel fine. It's just a little headache.”

“No such thing as a little headache after the hit you took. You blacked out for a moment there.”

Libby Cullen said, “And you were sick to your stomach all last night, even though you never did throw up.”

Jake was on the examining table, legs hanging over the side, nearly touching the floor. He looked at his mom and said, “Mom, you
told
?”

Knowing he sounded like he was ten.

“Your father played when he shouldn't have played. You're not going to.”

Jake looked over at his dad.

“She's right,” he said to Jake.

Jake said, “You know you would've made them let you play, if it was you.”

“And I'd've been dead wrong,” Troy Cullen said. “Those of us who played, in the day, only wish we knew then what we know now. Turned out I was one of the lucky ones, because even as hardheaded as I was about head injuries, I wasn't so hardheaded that I kept playing after my docs told me that I'd get to the point where I couldn't remember what I had for breakfast.”

Jake started to say something. His dad held up a hand.

“I see how a couple of my teammates ended up,” he said. “I consider myself lucky I only forget some of the things I do, get the headaches I do sometimes.”

Doc said, “Jake, we haven't even talked about how sensitive your eyes still are to light today, and how tired you clearly are, even though you tried to give me a head fake and say you weren't.”

“It's a chance to go to the state finals!” Jake said.

“And if the Cowboys get to the states,” Doc said, “somehow figure out a way to get 'er done without you next week, then we'll see where we are.”

“Wait a second,” Jake said, “you're telling me that I might not even get to play in the state finals if we get there?”

Doc said, “We're gonna examine you every other day, which means the next time I see you is Monday after school. Put you through what we call protocols, which is a fancy word for testing, things like balance, and keep doing neurological assessments. But no contact, obviously. Maybe some light running as we get near the end of the week. This is your brain we're talking about, son. It's the only one you got.”

“The only thing hurting my brain is what you're telling me,” Jake said.

“Not only do doctors get to tell you things, you have to listen to them when they do,” Jake's mom said. “It's a rule that got passed a while back.”

He knew the voice. Her game-ender.

“Can I at least go to the game?” Jake said.

“Of course,” Doc said. “Root your boys home.”

“I'm not cut out to be a cheerleader,” Jake said.

His mom smiled. “Sarah can teach you.”

He wasn't just cheering on his team now, he was cheering on Casey Lindell.

Jake and Wyatt had grown up hearing their dad say that people could talk about running the ball and defense all they wanted, but football was a quarterback's game, even in high school. So Casey had to play well against Sierra and their fancy offense, the highest-scoring team in the state this year, or the Cowboys wouldn't win the sectionals, wouldn't make it back to the state finals.

So the quarterback Jake had finally beaten out this season was the guy Jake needed to save his season.

Go figger, as Bear liked to say.

Of course it wouldn't just be Casey. Maybe in the end it would come down to Calvin making a play or a catch. Jake knew enough about sports to know that most of the time when a game looked even to you, it was best to put your money on the best player on the field.

That would be Calvin Morton Friday night, the way it was most Friday nights.

Still, Calvin needed Casey to throw him the ball. Which meant that
Jake
needed Casey. The guy who'd gone out of his way to make himself Jake's nemesis.

Amazing.

A lot had changed for Jake across this season, so many things on and off the field, they could have made Jake dizzy
before
he'd landed on his head. Now, at the end of this week, he was going to have to watch somebody else quarterback Granger in the big game.

“Just pretend that he's Wyatt,” Bear said at Tuesday afternoon's practice, “and you're rooting for your brother.”

Jake turned and looked at him. “Which one of us got the concussion, me or you?”

“Now listen up,” Bear said. “You wouldn't even root against Casey when him and you were competing for the same job. So nothin' has changed, you ask me; you're just being the same kind of teammate with your pads off you were with your pads on.”

In a voice only Bear could hear, Jake said, “I want to
play.
”

“Next Friday night,” Bear said. “Not this one.”

“If Doc lets me.”

“He will.”

“Don't be so sure. I passed all the tests, flying colors yesterday, and all he said when we were done was, ‘See you in two days. And no running till I do.'”

But Bear wasn't listening now; he was staring at Casey, shaking his head, saying, “Are we sure Casey is still right-handed?”

This was the second day in a row that Casey was wild throwing the ball. And today was worse than yesterday. His arm was still as strong as ever, and every few minutes he'd manage to make a throw that reminded everybody that arm strength was never a problem for him.

At the moment, accuracy was.

Big-time.

When he wasn't missing high, he was missing wide. Or the ball would be too far out front when he was trying to lead somebody. One time he threw it a yard behind Justice, and when Justice reached back, he got popped good by Melvin. And when Justice got up he said to Casey, “Man, you tryin' to get me killed?”

“Sorry, man,” Casey said. “Working out the rust.”

All season long Casey had let everybody, starting with Jake, know how much he wanted to be the man on this team. Now, for this one game, he was officially the man. Had the job to himself. Only he seemed to be pressing more than he ever had. Like moving to the bench had shaken his confidence.

On the field now, Calvin broke open on a deep post, having just dusted Melvin with a filthy fake to the inside. Casey overthrew him by ten yards, easy.

Bear said, “Well, it's still early in the week.”

Bear was right, it didn't matter how you looked on Tuesday afternoon long as you brought it Friday night.

“Tomorrow will be better,” Jake said.

“Damn straight.”

Only it wasn't. It was just more of the same; Jake could see that as soon as he got to practice after his latest appointment with Doc Mallozzi, having gone through all his tests again, Doc saying to come back the next day and maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to do some light running on the weekend.

Today he decided to watch practice from the top of Cullen Field, thinking that might take some pressure off Casey, not make him feel as if Jake was standing right there looking over his shoulder.

But the view wasn't any better from up there, because Casey was still acting like a baseball pitcher who'd completely lost the strike zone. Or an outside shooter in basketball firing up one brick after another.

The Cowboys were maybe half an hour or so from finishing when Jake saw Sarah waving at him, heading up the steps.

“I'm sorry,” Jake said, “this seat is taken.”

“Oh,” she said, “like the seat next to
me
was taken that night at Sal's?” She tossed her backpack in the aisle, sat down next to Jake, and said, “How's it going?”

“Terrible.”

“Oh, does your head still hurt?”

Jake pointed at the field. “It doesn't, but it's going to start hurting all over again if Casey doesn't start throwing better.”

Sarah said she'd heard some of the guys on the team talking about that in study hall. “What's that thing our parents are always telling us? Be careful what you wish for? Maybe that's Casey.”

“That,”
Jake said, “is exactly what I'm afraid of. That maybe he just wants this so much, it's eating him up.”

On Thursday, after Jake aced all Doc's tests again, Doc Mallozzi told Jake he could start running again.

“But if you feel yourself getting tired, stop,” Doc said.

“No chance of that happening,” Jake said. “After not doing anything all week, I've got enough energy to run all the way to Highland Junction.”

“You can run, and you can throw, and that's it, young man. Are we clear?”

“I feel good enough to play tomorrow night,” Jake said.

“Not happening,” Doc said. “Go.”

Libby Cullen dropped Jake off at school. He went straight to the locker room, put on his football pants, spikes, and a T-shirt. Happy to be just doing that, knowing this was a step closer to him being back in full football clothes.

But only if the Cowboys won on Friday night.

Only if Casey could do the job against Sierra.
Do his job,
Jake thought,
so I can get
mine
back.

When he got out on the field, he threw behind the bench with Justice, who'd taken a hit yesterday on an already-sore knee, Coach giving him the day off to rest it. Both of them would stop every few minutes to watch today's seven-on-seven drills, every play call a pass, like Coach McCoy and Coach Jessup were giving Casey as many throws as possible for him to find his form before they all got on the bus tomorrow for the ninety-minute ride to Highland Junction.

But Casey seemed to be pressing even more today than he had been all week, pacing after every missed throw, talking to himself, hanging his head when he wasn't slapping the sides of his helmet with his palms.

Justice came over and stood next to Jake and said, “I better stop watching now, before I get too overconfident.”

“My dad has an expression that covers this,” Jake said, not adding that Troy Cullen thought he had expressions that covered pretty much everything under the sun.

“Is it gonna make me feel better about what I'm watching out there?” Justice said.

“Probably not.”

“Give it to me anyway.”

“Casey Lindell,” Jake said, “is tighter than new boots.”

Justice finally asked if Jake wanted to throw a little more, saying that at least one quarterback on the team was accurate this afternoon. The two of them tossed the ball around until they could see that Coach McCoy was about to wrap things up for the day.

It was then that Jake had one of those good ideas his mom talked about, the kind that refused to get out of your head once they got in there.

Even knowing that Doc had said only light running today, Jake sprinted toward the locker room.