The next fifteen minutes of cheers and marching band tunes go off without a hitch while I mentally disappear into the only thing that matters: the game. I let the plays fill my brain, the scouting report of Lawndale flood my memory, and the adrenaline course through my veins all through the rally, the shuffling onto the bus, and the pregame meal. While I shovel chicken and mashed potatoes into my mouth, barely tasting anything, I think about Sanchez’s blind spot, Burke’s tendency to look down at the ball too often, and every single one of our other flaws that got picked apart on film at practice earlier this week.

Let the guys fuck around and use this time to talk about “kicking Lawndale ass” (with nothing to back it up) and which cheerleaders are looking particularly good this year, which involves a lot of elbowing Miguel.

Let the guys take me for granted, even if those same films showed me playing with near-flawless form and accuracy.

Let my brothers stay home, refusing to show up with my parents and support me.

Let the entire school stay silent at the sound of my name.

Let everyone underestimate me. Because they have no idea what I can do.

But they’re about to.

Channeling immense amounts of negative energy does epic things for my arm, as it turns out.

By halftime, I’ve thrown for two TDs and run one in, and even the most hard-core of Robbie’s worship squad have stopped trying to crowd me as if I can’t aim more than ten feet in front of me. They may not wanna acknowledge to my face that I’m good, but it’s just embarrassing for them if they can’t acknowledge it to the crowd. We’re up 20–7, and we’d be up by more if they’d trusted me sooner. But two of those touchdowns have come in the last ten minutes, and there’s a frisson of electricity passing through the entire team at the certainty there will be more.

I chug my Gatorade as we huddle up and Coach Sundstrom lays out plays for the second half, but I can’t help my gaze drifting over to the cheerleaders setting up in the middle of the field. There’s no special chant for me the way there is for Devlin, Burke, Santiago, and Sanchez—the way I’m sure there was for Robbie—but they have no choice but to kick and shout with every first down and every score, and the crowd’s energy is soaring now as the girls form an impressive pyramid.

I really need to stop staring at Amber McCloud’s pom-poms.