At the half, though, Santiago, Burke, and Barnes are bruised and exhausted, and I know we’ve probably hit the end of the line. I expect us to take a massive beating in the third quarter while they rest up and get refreshed, but Kennedy’s QB1 rolls his ankle, and our second string takes a cue from Barnes and uses a rare opportunity to show off. Not that they can score for shit, but defense does manage to keep the Cougars to a single field goal. By the time we line up for the last quarter, 24–12 on the board, I know the odds of us winning are in the toilet, but they haven’t been completely flushed.

Then again, I’m not sure it matters. Either way, I’ve looked fucking awesome, and there’s no way this crowd, including Terry Lawrence, is missing it.

No way my family’s missing it.

No way Amber’s missing it.

If one thing’s clear, it’s that I’m the star of this team, and everyone else throwing the game just makes them look like they can’t touch me—which they can’t. But obviously it’s triggered something, because when I call the play for the Downtown Dance, Matt snaps. “Fuck that,” he declares, back on the field now that Sam needs a break. “Gator Grab. Let’s go.”

“You’re not Coach. Coach makes the calls.”

“And I’m the captain. Don’t you fucking forget that, you little bitch,” he mutters, his voice so low, Coach can’t hear it from where he stands. But that doesn’t stop the rest of the team from picking it up and snickering, declaring “Gator Grab” to each other in stage whispers.

It’s the stupidest of all possible power moves, again requiring a split-second decision. If I let him have his call, will they actually play it through and get a first down? Because defense has been riding our asses all game and Downtown Dance was getting us, like, three yards at best. But if they fuck it up, I’ve let him take control for nothing.

Whatever—let him whip his dick out and wave it in the wind.

“Green, forty-two! Green, forty-two! Hike!” Devlin can’t catch for shit tonight, but he’s way too proud of his running to fuck that up. While I run back and let the ball fly in the most perfect spiral I’ve thrown all night, he manages to get halfway down the field, where defense has left a hole. His hands would have to go numb to miss this catch, but he’s so stunned I actually followed his move that he almost drops it anyway, rolling out of bounds the instant it’s in his mitts.

First down. Okay. Let’s go.