Chapter 45

Jeff

I don’t know what to make of Scooter. Is he crazy?

Over and over, we let him get pummeled.

I don’t know what I want him to do. Apologize? Beg for forgiveness? For protection?

Maybe I just want him to quit.

Not just football but school too.

Maybe I want him to run off the field and keep on running—all the way back to where he came from.

If he quits, I think, everything could go back to normal.

But he doesn’t quit.

Small as he is, he keeps charging into the line. Keeps taking his punishment. Keeps getting back up.

The next time he’s left lying crumpled on the field, I stand over him.

“What’s wrong with you?” I yell. “Say something! Why won’t you ever say anything?!”

He hops to his feet.

“You want me to say something?” he yells. “Is that all you want? Fine! Here’s what I say to you. Let’s switch!”

“What?”

“You and me. Let’s switch places. You be the halfback, I’ll be the fullback. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I’ve never heard him scream like this.

We’re all in a huddle now, but Scooter isn’t done talking. “Jeff and I are going to switch places,” he announces.

“No, we’re not,” I say.

“Seriously,” he says, “anyone else want me to take their position? Anyone want my position?” He looks around the huddle, daring someone to speak up. His head isn’t drooping now. “No? Great. Fullback it is.”

“You’ll get killed, man,” I say.

“I’m getting pretty beat up as it is,” he says. “Besides, I can do a heck of a lot better job than you are.”

“Fine,” I say. “You want to get clobbered, go ahead. Just don’t blame me, okay?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Scooter says. “Why don’t you stop blaming me?”

We break the huddle.

Scooter steps in front of me, gets in a crouch. Out of the corner of my eye I see Coach putting his hands together to signal a time out. I hear him start to yell, “Time—”

But he’s too late. Joey yells, “Hut!” He takes the snap, pivots, gives me the ball. Scooter finds the guy who’s blitzing and launches himself at him.

He’s got courage—I’ll give him that.

Unfortunately, Scooter’s too small to make much of difference. The linebacker shrugs him off and then lowers his shoulder into me.

His shoulder pad connects full force with my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I stagger and fall.

Scooter and I lie next to each other on the field.

“He said he wouldn’t have offered you the scholarship,” Scooter says, in his usual soft voice.

“What?”

“The coach at Huntington.” Scooter continues, this time with more urgency. “He said if I didn’t take the scholarship he would find someone on a different team. He said he wasn’t considering you. I’m sorry, Jeff. I should have said something. But I didn’t know how to tell you. And I needed the scholarship. Without the money I won’t be able to go to college at all.”

I’m stunned. Should Scooter have told me about the scholarship? Absolutely. He should have told me a lot of things. If I’d known that he needed that scholarship to go to college, well, that would have helped too. Why didn’t he tell me? Then again, why didn’t I tell him? He had no idea how desperate I was for that scholarship. I’ve been so focused on my game, my future, my relationship with Morgyn—mine, mine, mine.”

“Do you still blame me?” he finally asks.

“A little,” I admit. “Do you still think I’m a jerk?”

“A little,” he says.

“Then I guess we’re even,” I say.

We help each other up.