He and Hickham had already decided that in addition to his duties as quarterback, Cole would be playing defense as well. They thought it best to keep at least one fully functioning brain on the field at all times. Cole’s decision to open on defense was twofold. First, there was the fact that he had yet to take a snap with only eight fingers, much less tried to throw on target or hand off. The jury was still out on his ability to do either. Second, he preferred the idea of getting in a few good licks on defense—and hopefully shaking out some nerves in the process—before having to produce something on offense.

The referee clapped his hands and paced between the two lines. “All right, gentlemen, the Jackrabbits have chosen to kick. The Badgers will receive from the north end. Now, I’m expecting a clean game out there. If I see even a hint of foul play, I won’t hesita—”

“Cut the shit. Let’s play.” Coach Wafford turned and headed for the sideline.

“Don’t make yourself scarce out there, you hear?” Booker winked at Cole, then spun away and fell into step with his coach.

The drill teams and color guards from both sides fled to their respective end zones as Cole and Hickham moved to their own sideline.

When the field was clear, the Killington band struck up the national anthem. The opening notes coincided with a metallic bang that rocked the stadium. The light towers fluttered to life. The purple shades of dusk faded, replaced by white-hot electricity.

Cole rechecked the security of his chinstrap for the fifth time and asked Hickham for any final words of advise.

“Just hit your targets and stay away from the big guys.”

Cole looked at him, his teeth grinding a nervous trench into his mouthpiece.

Hickham held Cole’s helmet between his hands. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re not alone out here. Remember that. You’ve got me, and you’ve got your team. Just do what you’ve been doing all season, and we’ll all get through this together.”

A whistle blew. Players marched onto the field. Stalling was no longer an option.

Cole took a ball from the trainer’s table and marched over to Belfry Ingram. The kicker had suffered a significant skull fracture in the bus crash. His helmet now sat low and crooked on his head. As a football player, Belfry was an embarrassment. As a three-year letterman on the soccer team, he had made a habit out of kicking balls into the next time zone, which is why he had been moonlighting as the Jackrabbits’ place kicker since sophomore year.