Julian stretches his ribs, puffing air through his cheeks. He shakes his limbs loose before he gets in position. Just like Martinez, I check the defensive setup and then get in my stance after giving Julian a nod. My stomach is in knots. Julian’s just been smacked hard, and I can’t let that happen again. I know what Martinez did wrong, and I’m determined not to take my eyes off the tackle that broke through. A giant mass of a kid that probably has a nickname like Tiny or something else ironic. My heart is beating in my throat when I hear Julian call the play.

“Hike!” he shouts behind me.

I bury my helmet right in Tiny’s numbers, and he falls in slow motion like a tower of Jenga blocks. I jump up and make sure Julian’s had the chance to make the handoff and step out of the play. He’s safe behind me.

“You good?” I ask him as the running back gets tackled a few yards away.

“Yeah,” he says, completely out of breath. His hand is on his side and he is grimacing. I know he’s lying.

“I’m your left tackle now,” I say, standing up a little taller. I don’t really know if that’s true yet or not. Coach Marcus might decide I’m the worst tackle in history and put me somewhere else after a play or two, but I want to say something to Julian. Something so he knows I won’t let him get smacked again.

Julian meets my eyes. We stare at each other for a full breath. Finally, he just nods in my direction and puts his mouth guard back in.

I’m laser focused. No one’s getting to Julian if I can help it. My entire job as left tackle is to protect him from the defense. It takes a little bit of practice not to want to wrap my arms around the receivers and bury them into the ground after Julian passes the ball, but I start to get used to it. I crush and push as hard as I can to keep the defense from cutting through and sacking Julian while he falls into a nice pocket behind me. It’s an easier job than I thought it was going to be as far as reading the plays and anticipating the defensive moves. I don’t really have to concern myself with that anymore. Literally my entire job is to hold the defense back from knocking Julian over.

The bleachers are starting to fill up with pink and purple T-shirts, parents with balloons and flowers, and student groups with huge signs on colored butcher paper.

When the dance team and the cheerleaders start to gather at the far end of the field, Coach calls practice and we all head to the locker room. The o-line surrounds me.