“Elijah, you have so much talent,” he says. I sense a but coming and try to steel myself for the inevitable heartbreak. “I know you haven’t been on the field for three years, but that’s what workouts are for. Sure, you’re a little out of shape, but that’s easily fixed. I can see the way you’re tackling out there, and I know you can do this. You’ve got to get out of your head, though, son. You’re thinking too much,” he says.

“No one has ever accused me of that, sir,” I say. “I felt like I had two left feet out there.”

Coach Marcus laughs. “Let it go. Have fun. Let your natural instinct for the game kick in. Tomorrow it will be a little bit easier, and the next day and the next. You’ll see.”

Tomorrow? The anxiety falls away from my shoulders, and a smile pulls at my lips. “Yes, sir. Tomorrow will be better.” I nod.

“It will. Mark my words,” he says, swinging the locker room door open for me. “You’ve got this.”

I walk toward my locker with my chin held up. I feel his words sitting right in my chest.

· nine ·

JULIAN

He’s rusty. Really rusty.

I have to admit, it felt so good to let that long bomb go to my wide receiver, Darien, when I knew that there was no way Elijah was going to catch him. When that kid is on, no one can catch him. He runs like a damn gazelle when he gets his hands on the ball. If only we could make that happen reliably, we’d be the freaking state champions.

The buzzing in my ribs after I let that pass fly and it landed right in Darien’s sweet spot was totally worth it. I watched him cradle it all the way into the end zone and fought the urge to do my victory dance right in Elijah’s grass-stained face.

I know I’m going to have to ice my side tonight, but I’ve certainly played with worse injuries than this. I’m not even going to mention it to Coach Marcus. First, he’d yell at me for somehow being tackled incorrectly, and then want me to rest or go to the trainer and probably bench me for a week. For what? Sore ribs? How would it look if the second-string quarterback got the start in the first game of the year instead of me, and for something as dumb as sore ribs? Ray Remondo would rip me apart in the Meridien paper, and I know not one single Crenshaw graduate or booster would let me live it down.

I take my time in the shower and getting dressed, taking a good long look at my side. The bruise isn’t huge, but it’s turning a nasty shade of purplish red. Got to remember that ice tonight.