He sees one of the Kilton Valley Cougars high-stepping. Kid named Kevin Corson. He’s a running back. Good player. They’ve overlapped at a couple of one-day football camps. Never talked, which makes sense, since they play on opposite sides of the ball. Corson is already committed to play for Syracuse. Real dark skin—hide-in-the-night kind of black—but not one of the poor blacks. Six foot, two hundred pounds, fast in the flats with a good first move. He keeps himself low to the ground when he runs, shoulder down, ball tucked high and tight. He runs with purpose. His mom is an optometrist and his dad works at a bank or something. Money. Even from here, Jessup can see that he’s wearing a brand-new pair of Nike turf shoes and pro gloves. The shoes go for something like $130 a pop, the gloves $60. Must have bought them just for this playoff game. He’s heard Corson has worked with a personal trainer since middle school. He looks like it, all fast twitch, no fat. Could be the assistant coach from Syracuse University is here to take a last look at Corson, too. There’s a part of Jessup that hopes so.
He’s watched a lot of film, and he thinks he’s got Corson dialed in. Corson’s got a tell when he’s going to cut left. Jessup will be able to contain him, keep him mostly bottled up, but if he plays it perfectly he’ll be able to blow Corson up at least once. With a little luck, he’ll jar the ball loose. Even if he can’t make a highlight-reel hit, it’s going to be a running game the whole night. Jessup will be able to take some shots. Maybe one of the guys on the line will stand Corson up so Jessup can go in hard and take his helmet off early on. Send him to the bench thinking about whether or not he really wants to keep going. That’s the kind of thing that can tilt a game.
Corson sprints and takes a few quick shakes, getting a feel for the turf. It’s sloppy, and it looks like Corson isn’t happy. The kid glances up and sees Jessup watching and gives him a big wink. Jessup doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away. Thinks, I’m going to put you on your ass. A kid like Corson likes to play football while Jessup needs to play.
He feels a hard slap on his shoulder pads. Derek Lemper plays nose guard. He’s a junior. Dumb as shit, but nice, and a tank. Dad’s out of the picture, but Mom is the sales manager at the Honda dealership. She’s a little hefty but still attractive. Nothing like Derek. Derek is close to three hundred pounds, his belly rolling over, head like a watermelon. He’s got a girlfriend who looks like she came out of a gumball machine. Lot of jokes about her being crushed to death if Derek ever falls asleep after sex.
“Ready, Jessup? Kick some ass?” Derek has his hand out for a bump, and Jessup tags him.
“Kick some ass,” Jessup agrees.
Derek grins and does a shimmy that makes Jessup laugh. He turns to see Wyatt Dunn doing his own sort of dance. He’s been best friends with Wyatt since David John first started taking the family to church. Met him at church but went to the same elementary school, too, same middle school, same high school, Wyatt like a brother even if they don’t go to church together anymore. Jessup hasn’t gone to church since David John and Ricky were arrested, but even though Wyatt took a fair number of Sundays off to go hunting or just to sleep in when he was in eighth, ninth, tenth grades, he’s started going regular again with his parents, every week, just like Jessup’s mom and Jewel. Wyatt plays tackle. He’s got a scholarship offer from UConn. Doesn’t expect any more to come his way. The Huskies only won two of their twelve games last year. Wyatt’s under no illusions, but he figures it’s better than paying for college.
Wyatt reaches around him with his meaty arms and pulls Jessup in for a hug. He presses the side of his helmet into Jessup’s. “Saw you watching Corson warm up. Knock the shit out of that son of a bitch, okay? Let’s teach him a lesson, man. Teach him where he belongs.” Wyatt squeezes Jessup and then says, “Jesus loves you and I love you, brother. Let’s light ’em up.”
Jessup says it back. Rituals. Jesus loves you and I love you, brother. Light ’em up. And together, Jesus keep us safe from harm. The same thing before every game since freshman year.
A couple of other defensive linemen have drifted over, and he goes through the routine with them, too, tapping fists, kick some ass, protect this house, stop them cold. The coaches are gesturing for them to head over to the bench, so they break it up.
In the few minutes since they’ve come back out from the locker room, the field has garnered a scrum of slush. It’s a haze on the plastic grass. He looks up at the lights. The sleet has started to fully give over to snow. It comes down tracing the arc of winds and gravity, the pure glow of the lights turning every snowflake into a falling star. If he didn’t have a game, he’d be happy to stand there forever. But he feels a few other hands slapping his shoulder pads, so he jogs over to the sideline, each step careful and testing, getting a sense of how his shoes are going to bite. He feels good. Loose. He got home from practice last night, helped his sister with her math, finished his own homework, and was in bed by ten, asleep so quick that he could have been drunk. He doesn’t remember dreaming. People would pay good money to sleep like that.
Kilton Valley has elected to kick off. That means they’ll start the second half with the ball, but right now it means that Jessup is going to have some time before he hits the field. He sits down on the bench, the wet metal cold, but it gives him a minute to deal with his shoes. He likes starting the game with everything perfect. It doesn’t matter that the exercise is pointless; the rubber pellets on the turf cannot be conquered. He knows as soon as he’s back on the field he’ll have them gathered in his shoes. Once he hits the ground for the first time, they’ll be worked up in his pads, too, in his socks, his hair. You can’t escape them. He’s got rubber pellets embedded under the scab on his elbow. He unlaces anyhow, shakes out his shoes, and has them laced back up in time to watch the kickoff.
But he misses the kick, because he catches sight of his sister and his mom at the end of the field, wending their way up the steps. And right with them, his stepfather. David John out of prison.