CHAPTER 12

There isn’t a single game where we don’t wipe the field with our alien opponents.

Except for the game against these creatures that look sort of like roller-skating sharks where Briny almost gets a tentacle bitten off. And the one against the Grissom Nox, who look totally small and beatable until their backs slide open and they turn into enormous two-headed monsters covered with tube-shaped suckers.

Oh, and I almost forgot the overtime game against the clawed crocodile dudes we barely manage to beat when Chuck—who got patched up from his injury nicely by RU-MD—does the old hide-the-ball-in-the-shell play.

Okay, fine. None of the games are blowouts, only about half of our new plays actually work the way I imagined, and when I get nervous I still throw passes that don’t go anywhere near where I’m trying to put them.

But my point is that even if we don’t actually dominate in our next games, somehow, someway, we manage to work together and pull things out in the end and come up with the W.

Suddenly, we’re like the biggest heroes Earth has seen since the guy who invented Pop-Tarts figured out a way to call frosting and sprinkles breakfast.

All the places we come from try to outdo each other with finding ways to honor us. An Australian band writes a song called “Quake to the Rescue.”

Germany introduces a new car called the Mercedes-Astrid.

And everyone in the Philippines starts dyeing their hair blue and naming their babies Nova.

Even the aliens get their own limited-edition trading cards.

To be honest, I’m not really sure how I feel about all this fame.

I mean, sure, it’s supercool that a national grocery chain agrees to carry W00t! and the company that makes Flamin’ Hot Cheetos releases a special package in my honor.

Only the thing is, I’ve never been good at anything in my life, which is sort of sad and pathetic when you think about it. But when you fail at everything you try, nobody expects you to succeed—which means zero pressure. Then, when you start winning, things change.

At first the sports shows say it’s a fluke. Then you’re a Cinderella story, a contender. Some even compare you to, you know, another quarterback whose last name sounds kind of similar to yours.

But deep inside I know I’m still the same kid who got a concussion in PE when I accidentally tied my shoelaces together. (Don’t ask.)

I want to shout, “Don’t count on me. I might look good right now, but I’m not my dad. I’m going to mess this all up and you’ll have gotten your hopes up for nothing!”

All of which means, the closer we get to the playoff game that will take us to the championship, the more I start freaking out. Until the day finally arrives and I’m pacing the locker room hoping I don’t faint, or puke up one of my organs, or curl into a ball on the floor, sucking my thumb and—

“Snap out of it,” Nova says. “What’s wrong with you?”

I rub my hands on my jersey. “It’s just that, I know how much you all depend on me.” I look her in the eye and take a deep breath. “Because I want you to know how much you—and the rest of the team—mean to me. And I couldn’t stand to disappoint you.”

Nova puts her hands on my shoulders. “Wyatt, there’s something I need to tell you.”

For just a minute, my heart stops beating, and my lungs forget how to breathe. Is this the moment I’ve dreamed about almost as many times as I’ve dreamed about being a pirate captain and having my own ship called the Pesky Pokémon?

Is Nova finally going to tell me that she feels the same way about me that I feel about her?

Staring into my eyes, she moves her face closer and closer to mine, and suddenly all the sodas I’ve been drinking start to gurgle in my stomach.

Don’t puke, I tell myself. Don’t puke.

Our faces are so close now that I can feel her breath. I close my eyes, pucker my lips, and—

Nova shakes me until my neck wobbles back and forth like a bobblehead doll. “You haven’t won any of these games by yourself, and you’re not going to lose them by yourself, either. So stop whining, get your freaking shoulder pads on, and let’s win this.”

And that’s exactly what we do.

The Grevlocks, who look like enormous grasshoppers with spikes on the backs of their knees and elbows, are good, but we’ve been coming together as a team until we almost know what the other members are thinking without having to say it.

The final score is 35–21, and we’re all celebrating and banging our helmets together when Astrid looks up at the scoreboard and her face gets so pale, she could disappear in a snowstorm.

“Have any of you seen who we’re going to play in the championship?” Astrid says.

“No,” I say, thinking we have nothing to worry about, until I look up and spot the skeleton creatures we saw on the practice field the day we started our turnaround.

A video plays of their team captain, Yex-Osseous-Maximus, smashing his opponent as actual fire shoots from his eyes.

“Hey, isn’t that Yex dude the one you said smelled like a cafeteria explosion?” Nitro asks.

“Not necessarily. There could be lots of three-armed, giant skeletons with flaming eyes,” I say, wondering if it’s too late to send flowers and a nice “sorry for the misunderstanding” note.

“You think those fire eyes are why they made our uniforms flameproof?” Ajay asks, looking at the fabric of his jersey.

“The Yextals haven’t lost a single game this entire season,” Nova whispers.

“They also hold the record for causing the most season-ending injuries,” Crush adds, and for once, even Sunny isn’t smiling.

Okay. We might have something to worry about.