“Walsh, where’s your head at?” Coach snaps me back to attention in the huddle, and whew, he is definitely pissed at me, but really, what’s the point of this? He can tell me to pass to Sawyer or Sanchez or Devlin, but we all know what the result’s gonna be. Or maybe everyone knows but him. Either way, it’s a waste, which means it’s either me or Santiago risking our limbs again. Or maybe we won’t even get that far, if they’re pissed enough to let the rush through to bury my ass in the dirt.

And then, a voice in my ear. “Statue of Liberty. I can do it. I’ll get us to the forty at least.”

It’s Burke. I seek out his dark brown eyes beneath his helmet, and he looks sincere, but maybe he’s just a better actor than the rest of them. “I won’t screw you,” he adds. “I know the guys are … whatever, but my brother’s up there. My mom and pops are up there. I can’t promise you Mathison will make the kick, but I can get us closer to the end zone.”

It’s a ridiculous choice of play at this point in the game, but surprises can only help me, especially if it means getting someone else on my side. “Yeah, all right. Get Coach on board. I don’t think he’s gonna listen to me right now.”

I watch from a few feet away while Burke makes his case to Coach, and it’s clear Sundstrom’s not buying it. So we run yet another play that gives Sanchez a chance to show off how much he sucks before Coach mercifully gives our plan a shot and calls Statue of Liberty. There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes when they land on me while he makes the call. I’m in for some shit later. But for now, I close my eyes and pray I can trust Burke as much as I hope I can. I drop back, fake to Santiago—he’s just the most believable target, for anyone who’s been paying attention—and hand it off. True to Burke’s word, he gets the nine yards we need to go for a field goal, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding since the tail end of my last “Please don’t fuck me over.”