David John is walking behind Jessup’s mom and Jewel. From thirty yards away, Jessup recognizes his stepfather, but can’t see if the man looks any different. Jessup’s been good about writing back to both David John and Ricky—both men write him at least once a week—but he’s refused to visit either. He doesn’t know why.
The hum of the crowd swells as the kicker for the Kilton Valley Cougars runs at the ball. Everybody’s watching the field, the way the kicker plants his foot and swings through, the ball tumbling high in the heavy falling snow, spinning up into the darkness and then back down, dropping near the ten. The first wave of Kilton Valley players crashes against the Cortaca High players, and even though he’s looking away from the field, at his family, Jessup can hear the grunts and the crack of pads and helmets. Everybody is watching the kickoff except for David John. His stepfather’s eyes have found him, and he gives Jessup a nod. Jessup nods back.
He turns in time to see the Kilton Valley gunner—a white kid who plays tight end when he isn’t tasked with head-hunting the Cortaca High kick returner—cut in and take Simeon Lesko down at the seventeen.
Five of the players on the kick-return team are also starters on offense, so it’s a piecemeal swap of players for Cortaca High. Kilton Valley fills the box, ready to stop the run. They know what’s coming. Cortaca’s starting quarterback, Jonathan Choo, could sling the ball, but he broke his clavicle the second game of the season. There’s a chance he’ll be back for next week’s game if the Bears make it through. In the same game Choo got hurt, the backup—a mouthy, arrogant senior named Jayden Carlisle, who resented having to sit behind Choo—got his knee torn up. Since then, it’s been Phillip Ryerson. Kid is fourteen, a true freshman, looks milquetoast, but tough as heck. Not a great arm, but smart and only had five turnovers for the season.
All preseason with Choo, they practiced Diggins’s plan to have them run and gun. With Jonathan at quarterback, they figured they’d be able to score four, five touchdowns a game. All the defense had to do was keep it close and let Choo do his thing. But plans change; they have to, otherwise two injuries over three quarters sends the season down the tubes. With Ryerson back there, the plan has been grind it out. Three yards and a pile of bodies. Live and die by the defense. Ryerson only throwing eight, ten times a game, just trying to keep the other team honest.
But it isn’t enough to keep the other team honest. When the Bears have the ball, opposing teams fill the box. And that’s what Kilton Valley does on the first play. Nine men up front, both safeties crowding the line and ready to corral the run.
Of course, that assumes Cortaca does, in fact, run the ball.
They practiced it all week. It isn’t the play that is the issue; it’s selling the run. Ryerson has to keep his head down, look back at Mike Crean playing fullback and Pearce Trion at running back behind him, motion them over a foot or two. And split all the way left, Trevell Brown, looking like he’s half-assing it.
Ryerson barks in cadence, pauses and motions to his right, pulling everybody but Trevell to the line. Kilton Valley is playing a six-two, but the middle linebackers are almost close enough to touch the offensive line, and the free safety is right in the middle, barely five yards back. The cornerback on the right side has drifted in with his assignment, and even from his spot on the sideline, Jessup can see that the cornerback covering Trevell has already turned his hips to the inside. It’s one on one with Trevell. No backup for Kilton Valley if Trevell can get past his man: it’s clear to Jessup even before Ryerson has the ball in his hands that Kilton Valley has bit on the play.
The crowd in the stand recognizes it even as the two lines smash into each other, a throaty roar washing over Jessup as he watches Ryerson taking a seven-step drop, Crean and Pearce rushing up to keep a pocket around him. Jessup has to admit it’s a ballsy call by Coach Diggins. They ran it at least twenty times in practice, and even with a soft defense, they only pulled it off half the time. Trevell’s got straight-line speed, but he’s also got hands of stone, and it’s not like Ryerson can just drop it in the breadbasket. And tonight, with the cold and the sleet turned into heavy, fat snow, a thousand sparkling candles in the floodlights, Jessup figures it for a wasted play. Best case, it gets Kilton Valley to play receivers like they are a real threat for a while, give a little space for Cortaca to run the ball.
But good Lord, Trevell gets the jump on the cornerback. By the time he’s five yards off the line of scrimmage, the cornerback is just starting to turn. Trevell has got his man beat easy, wide-open field in front of him. He’s running flat out, head down, not supposed to even look for the ball until he’s twenty yards off the line. And Ryerson finishes dropping back and then cocks the ball back and steps forward, all his weight behind the ball. He gives it everything he’s got.
It’s an ugly throw. Slow-motion highlights from college and the pros always show the ball in a tight spiral, spinning through the air like a bullet, but this ball is wobbling and a floater. And yet it’s clear that despite how wounded the ball looks, Ryerson has overshot. He’s thrown the ball forty, forty-five yards. A hell of a throw. Trevell still hasn’t looked up, and he’s got at least ten yards on the cornerback now. Finally, he turns his head, and even though Jessup is across the field, he swears he can see Trevell’s eyes popping out of his skull. He’s got a bead on the ball, and he takes one last step before laying himself full out in the air, the ball nestling perfectly into his fingers. He pulls the ball in to his chest and twists as he comes down, landing on his back on the Kilton Valley thirty-five and sliding a good ten yards in the mess of snow and slush. When he comes to a stop on the Kilton Valley twenty-five-yard line, he holds the ball up and there’s an explosion of noise from the stands behind Jessup.