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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781328595867 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 08/20/2019 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 360,003 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.70(d) |
| Lexile: | 650L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
1
SATURDAY
Later, in the week that followed, Zeb Holloway watched the injury form again and again. T. T. Monroe, the finest quarterback ever to play for Rumney High School in Grafton County, New Hampshire, turned the corner on an option play in the last minutes of their win over Hampton, and Zeb knew something had to give. It was exactly like sensing a wave about to break, and Zeb had turned halfway to check the college scouts in the stands, the men with college baseball hats perched on their heads and slim binocular cords looped around their necks, the ones who came to watch T.T. and time him and smile when they saw him pull off yet another spectacular run or pass—he was a highlight reel, everyone said, and it was true—and by the time Zeb pulled his eyes back, he caught merely the end of T.T.’s leg buckling under him, heard the bone snap, heard T.T. scream like a fox Zeb had once heard scream when his uncle George Pushee had darted an arrow through the animal’s cheek. “No, no, no, no, no,” T.T. shouted as soon as the action stopped. He rolled on the field and grabbed handfuls of grass. Zeb heard the grass rip free of the earth.
“Holloway, warm up!” came the shout. It was Coach Hoch. Backs coach. Zeb heard the call far away and did not at first realize it signaled for him to warm up. Then Hawny Spader, his best friend, a third-string defensive back who never played, suddenly appeared with a ball hatched under his arm and his eyes scrambled wide. “You’re going in, man!” Hawny said as if he couldn’t believe it even as he gathered the substance of the situation. Zeb regarded him, trying to pull himself together. “Holloway! Holloway, get your butt going. Get warmed up!” Coach Hoch came through the team like a man spreading a shower curtain. Kids jostled away, most of them riveted by the spectacle of T.T. slowly being attended to by the EMTs who now ringed his body. The stadium had gone quiet. Seven thousand people—maybe more, hard to count them, Zeb thought—had turned to stone in an instant. Zeb knew everyone was stunned and he understood the calculation: not only had T.T.’s varsity career suddenly come to a horrible conclusion, but the state championship, the championship that T.T. had promised to bring to the high school on the Saturday after Thanksgiving Day the following week, had now become a long shot. The fans had a difficult time absorbing it all so quickly, Zeb reflected, and the bright flashes of understanding they experienced felt halved and sliced by newer disappointment as the reality of the situation became clearer in each moment that passed. Before Coach Hoch reached him, Zeb glanced over at the cheerleaders—he looked mostly for Stella, but his eyes couldn’t pick her out of the line of pompoms and white sweaters with blue piping that marked the girls’ formation. Several of them held their hands to their lips, and then, as if understanding her place in the mourning process was greater than the others’, Stella, T.T.’s girlfriend, stepped forward, a bit showy even in this moment of small tragedy, and Zeb saw tears filling her eyes, while two other girls—not ones he knew well—put their arms around her and tried to comfort her. It pained Zeb to admit it, but he could spot the evaluation forming in Stella’s movement, her neediness for attention. T.T. was injured, and Stella had become mourner in chief, the girlfriend whose sadness could give her a first starring role. Sad, noble girlfriend. Tragic girlfriend. Zeb knew she would be aware of the new eyes that found her. That was catnip to Stella. She couldn’t resist it.
“Forget him now!” Coach Hoch half shouted while he was still yards away. “Forget T.T. We all want him to be okay, that’s fine, you can want it to be any which way, but you’re the next man up. You hear me? You’re the next man up! What do we always say? You’re the next man up, that’s what we say.” Zeb nodded. It still hadn’t sunk in that he was now to get ready, now to go into the game as T.T.’s replacement. “I’ll warm him up, Coach,” Hawny said. “I got him.” “Start throwing,” Coach Hoch said. “There you go. Hawny, good man. You get him limbered up, you hear? Now quit looking at T.T. There’s not a thing in the world you can do for him. No, I take that back. What you can do for him, Zeb, what you can do is step in and finish the game the way it’s supposed to be finished. You hear? Zeb, you tracking with me?” Zeb nodded, his stomach buzzing with butterflies. He had been in a game only once the entire season, in a mop-up victory over Campton when the score had been so lopsided the game had taken on a festive air for the Rumney team. His role had been meaningless, a mere comic piece of punctuation because the game had been so securely put on ice by T.T. Even this game against Hampton, halfway through the fourth quarter, was iced. By rights, T.T. should have come out before, and he probably would have after the final series, but Zeb knew some of it had been to parade for the college scouts what T.T. could do. It had been showing off, honestly, and Zeb didn’t like thinking it, but he knew his grandmother in Maine would say something about the Lord and pride going before a fall. Still dazed, he stepped back and grabbed the ball when Hawny underhanded it to him. He tossed it to Hawny, putting some air underneath it. Hawny caught it, tucked it close to his body as receivers were trained to do, and lofted it back. “Okay, now, nothing fancy,” Coach Hoch said, finding his calmer voice, his sincere voice. Coach Hoch stood next to Zeb, sideways. He was a solid, thick man, with lips turned too wide up and down, a fish with its lips pressed against the side of an aquarium. “We’re golden in this game. We’ll be running the ball and taking it slow. Grind out the clock, that’s all we have to do. We’ll hand the game to our defense . . . that’s it. Not a thing to worry about. What does Coach K say? It’s a game and it’s supposed to be fun. Isn’t that what he says?” Zed nodded. That was, indeed, what Coach K said. For a moment, Zeb concentrated on throwing. He could always throw. In fact, although he was not as explosive as T.T., not nearly as fast or elusive, he sometimes felt that as a thrower, a pure passer measured by that standard alone, he could hold his own with T.T. Zeb lived to throw, whereas T.T. passed merely as a part of his arsenal. For Zeb, passing constituted his only football gift. Even now, lobbing the ball to Hawny and catching it when it came back, Zeb took satisfaction in the motion, in the quiet tick of the laces as they left his right hand. He threw a good, tight spiral. Hawny, on receiving the ball, nodded and tossed the ball back. They had played catch a thousand times, but never quite like this, never with the game open and waiting. “Throw a couple hard . . . that’s it . . . don’t wait for the game to come to you. You look good. You’ve got this. Keep your head about you. You got to meet the game, right? Isn’t that right?” “That’s right, Coach,” Zeb answered. “Okay, they got him up. Okay. Here we go. Nice and easy does it. Here we go. You’re in good hands, Zeb. You don’t have to win the thing all by yourself. Just nice and level. That’s the boy.” The EMTs had secured an inflatable cast around T.T.’s leg. The cast looked out of place, a pool toy in an otherwise serious world. The crowd clapped, but it wasn’t the usual roar T.T. received, not half of it. T.T waved from the flat bed of a golf cart as it puttered toward the locker room.
Coach K’s long left arm slowly settled around Zeb’s shoulders. It felt awkward being so close to the man, to the legendary coach with four state championships and the grim, serious demeanor of a person who did not for an instant question his own authority. Zeb fought the impulse to shake the man’s arm off his shoulders. Coach K had never shared such intimacy with him before; there were times, in fact, when Zeb wondered if Coach K knew who he was. “Now just settle down. These are your glory days, just like the song says. Believe on that. I know your heart’s beating fast, but there’s no reason to give into it, you hear me? Lean into your practice and your fundamentals. Stick to your fundamentals.” Zeb heard him but was more astonished by the powerful bad breath coming from Coach K. Zeb nodded. Nodding almost always provided whatever it was adults seemed to need from him. He nodded again. This time he knew it had been too much, too transparent, because Coach K pushed him a little away and regarded him carefully with his pale blue eyes. “You’ll be okay, Zeb,” Coach K said. “This is a moment. This is what we practice for, you understand? This is why we drill and why we do two-a-days in August. You reading me, son? When the time to perform has arrived, the time to prepare has passed.” Zeb nodded, recognizing one of the thousand quotes the coach liked to throw into his conversations. He slowly comprehended that Coach K required more of a reply, a spoken acknowledgment. “Yes, sir.” “You look around, now. You see this stadium? They’re all pulling for you. Every last one . . . at least on our side. They’re sending you good thoughts, you hear?” “Yes, sir.” “Now, what we want to do is simply possess the ball and eat time. Tell the backs to stay inbounds. Tell the line we need crisp blocking in this series. You got it?” “Yes, sir.” “Zeb, you remember when you were a little boy and just went into the backyard or wherever it was you played? Well, it’s the same game. Have fun with it. Enjoy it and let it shine through you, okay?” Zeb nodded hard and started onto the field, but Coach K grabbed his arm and nearly jerked him off his feet. “You need a play, right?” Coach K said. Zeb nodded. His mouth felt white inside and dry. “You go twins right, Twenty-Seven Boom. You run it that way, then run it back the other way. Bread and butter. Make them stop us. Nothing fancy, no complicated formations. Twenty-Seven Boom. Now go ahead. Tell the backs to keep both hands on the ball.” Running onto the field, Zeb had to keep himself from turning to look for the source of the crowd’s applause. They applauded for him, he realized an instant later, just in time to save himself from the embarrassment of looking. They applauded not for anything he had done, of course, but for a general sense of relief that T.T.’s slot had been filled by a willing, if lesser, backup. Mixed in with it, he guessed, was a measure of speculation about what this kid could do, what he might bring to the game that T.T. had not. That was absurd, naturally. He could bring to the game nothing that T.T. could not bring, and in confirmation of this thought, he saw two of the college scouts rise from their seats and snatch their butt pillows off the aluminum bleachers. They were not here to see him, obviously, and although that should have made Zeb feel slightly better—after all, it was less pressure to perform—it only made him feel more of an impostor. “Here he comes, here comes the man,” someone from the offensive circle said. Zeb could not identify the voice, but he was grateful for it. “Next man up,” someone else shouted. “Pick ’em up, pick ’em up. Next man.” Zeb looked at the huddle as he approached, his wind knocking hard in his chest. He needed to calm down. He needed to get perspective. He pictured himself in a deer stand sometime in early December, say, up near the Dummer Camp with his uncle Pushee and his uncle’s buddy Whoopie. He pictured his breath coming out slow and steady, like a train—Uncle Pushee always said, Like a train sitting in the station and waiting to go—until the cold and the sight of a deer stepping softly, softly through the forest brought him slightly forward, hawk-necked and keen, with the slide of the arrow nocking back against the compound bow creating a sound like foil being pulled off its roll just before it’s ripped on the ragged teeth. “Call a play, man, call a play,” Dunham said. Dunham the fullback. Then Zeb flexed to one knee and looked up at the faces bent over to watch him. “Twenty-Seven Boom,” he said, “break.” The team broke, but then Jiler, the center, asked loud enough for everyone to hear: “What’s it on?” Meaning “When do you hike the ball?” Meaning not even one play in and Zeb already felt like a dumb ass.
“On two,” Zeb yelled. “On two.” Jiler nodded, the red dot of blood on the bridge of his nose—which was permanently raw throughout the season—shaking a single drop of the red clotted fluid to the bulge of his right nostril. He nodded and hustled away, then stuck his butt in the air and waited. They should have practiced a few snaps, Zeb realized, but it was too late for that. He tried to appear calm as he followed the offensive line to the scrimmage. He had seldom run plays with the starting team, certainly never in real conditions, and it felt as if he had been given the controls of a first-class machine the working of which he did not quite understand. The Hampton linebacker Tiny Crawford—Zeb knew about him from the pregame talks with Coach Hoch and T.T.—slobbered a few commands to his defense, then danced forward as if he wanted to jump over the line and jerk Zeb’s head from his shoulders. “Coming after you, sub. You hear me? I’ll get you, my pretty.” Zeb saw the linebacker smile. Then, as if the words came from a second mouth inside him, Zeb said, “Set, ready, hut, hut . . .” The ball came into his hands. It came smoothly and he took it and spun and stuck his arm out to Otzman, the team’s best running back—besides T.T.—and Otzman snapped it away with a huff and folded it into his gut. Zeb continued the fake, that was his job, and pretended to bootleg around the left end. No one believed he had the ball, but that was okay, it was protocol, and he hardly saw Otzman run into a mass of bodies at the line of scrimmage, going nowhere, and a ref blew a whistle to signal the end of the play. Zeb trotted back to the forming huddle. “Okay, listen,” he said, trying to take command as he knew a quarterback should, “we don’t want to go out of bounds. Backs, two hands on the ball. We want to keep the clock going. Line, you got to be crisp . . .” “Just call the freaking play,” McCay said. He was the right guard, a smallish, stumpy kid with a neck like a donkey’s. Zeb called the Boom play to the other side. “On one,” he remembered to say. The team clapped in unison. They broke from the huddle as they had been trained to break since September 1.
“Coach K wants to see you upstairs,” Coach Hoch said. “Hop along, now. Don’t keep the man waiting.” Zeb nodded. He wore his game pants and a Rumney T-shirt, and he still had his shoulder pads crouched on his shoulders. He stripped off the shoulder pads and tossed them in his locker. The floor, when he walked across it barefoot, felt sticky and slick at the same time. Sticky, he knew, from the balls of ankle tape that clotted the areas around the benches; slick, doubtless, from the streams of water that trailed the players as they came out of the showers in white towels, their bodies pink from the cold air outside and the blood the steamy water brought out. Zeb climbed the stairs, trying his best to stay calm. He did not like going upstairs. The upstairs belonged to the coaches and training staff; as a rule, going upstairs meant you were hurt or in trouble. He didn’t fit either category, so he felt a bit at sea. As he reached the top step, he smelled onions. Someone had set out a pile of hoagies, and three boosters—local men with business connections—held plates in front of them. It felt hot and Zeb halted, orienting himself, then finally spotted Coach K. Dino Puglasi, the chubby manager with a round, full moon face, kneeling at the coach’s feet, unlacing the man’s cleats. Coach K had a bad back and it wasn’t uncommon to see Dino helping him. “Are you hungry, son?” one of the boosters asked before Zeb could think or move. “No, sir, thank you.” “You sure? They’re from Ginger’s . . . best subs in town.” “No, thank you, sir.” The man nodded and made a tiny toast with his corner of sandwich. Zeb saw Coach K wiggle his finger to call him over. “Have a seat,” Coach K said, sliding a straight-backed chair over. “You did a nice job today.” “Thank you, Coach,” Zeb said, sitting down carefully. Dino finished with the shoes and carried them off. Coach K lifted each foot slowly and massaged his toes for a minute. “You did what we asked,” Coach K said, then called to Dino for a sub. “Ham?” Dino asked. Coach K nodded. “You sure you don’t want a sandwich, Zeb?” Coach K asked. “I’m positive, sir.” “You’re a polite kid. I like that. It’s a compliment to your upbringing.” Zeb didn’t say anything. He had to concentrate on staying level. Coach K looked tired. He looked older, too, as if the season had drained something from him. Pictures of him in the paper always made him appear bigger, Zeb decided. In person, Coach K looked smaller, a halfback, maybe, or a defensive safety. His eyes, Zeb knew, set Coach K apart. They were pale blue, dull, but somehow more penetrating than the eyes of any other human Zeb had met. The kids on the team called it his “tractor beam” and Zeb agreed with the assessment. You could not get free of the eyes once they grabbed onto you. Coach K read books on warfare and tactical arrangement, and more than once he’d quoted generals or Chinese priests in his pregame pep talk. He believed especially in eye contact and directness. “Anyway,” Coach K said, accepting the sandwich Dino held out, “T.T.’s at the hospital now, so we don’t know the final verdict, but I think it’s safe to say he won’t be back. Darn shame, that’s a given. He’s had a heck of a year, as you know.” “Yes, sir, he has. Sorry to hear that.” “Right now you’re the second man on the depth chart. That means you’re the starting quarterback for the time being. Do you have any problem with that?” Coach K looked directly at him. Zeb forced himself to meet the man’s eyes, although he wondered what Coach meant by the time being. “I have no problem with that, Coach.” “We’ll be looking at our options very carefully,” Coach K said after a moment. He bit into his sandwich and chawed it in his right cheek. “We have a week to prepare. That’s not much time. You need to be honest with me, now. Are you as up on the playbook as you should be?” “I think so, sir.” “Think so or know so?” “I know so.” “Good. That’s a good attitude. That’s the right attitude. What I need you to do is take another look at the playbook and see if there’s anything you don’t get. Now’s not the time to fake anything. We’re playing for the state championship next Saturday. We understanding each other on that?” “Yes, sir.” “You throw well, but you need to be in charge out there. We’ll work on that next week. You need to work on your ball handling too. Your teammates need to see you as a leader. Is that clear?” Zeb nodded. “This is something you’ll remember all your life, son. State championship game. Guys,” Coach K said, raising his voice and preparing to take another bite of his sandwich, “will Zeb here remember the game next Saturday all his life or what?” The man who had offered Zeb a sandwich said in a loud voice, “You better freaking believe it. All your life.” “Good or bad, you’re going to remember it, Zeb. Now go home and get some rest. Take it easy this weekend.” “Yes, sir.” “Rest and catch up on your sleep. Take care of yourself. You just became extremely important to a whole lot of people. I hope you know that. You’re not in this alone. The whole town is counting on you. Remember, victory begins in the heart.” Zeb stood. Coach K bit into his sandwich and began chewing, a single wayward onion dropping onto his chest. Dino swung by with a steaming cup of black coffee. Zeb nodded to him. Dino nodded back.
“It’s a complete pisser,” Hawny Spader said from behind the wheel of his lifted F-150. “You, the starting QB? Insane. I love it. Playing for the state championship, and who’s the starting QB? You got it. One Zebulon Holloway!” Hawny sat forward on the bench seat of the Ford F-150. He was a short, compact kid, with a blond buzzcut and the kind of skin that let you see the veins beneath it. He loved his F-150, and he had outfitted it with risers as soon as he got it so he could look down on cars and people around him. A short man’s truck, Zeb’s uncle Pushee always said. Hawny didn’t care what people said about his truck, Zeb knew, because Hawny loved it like a person might love a horse or a dog. He had tricked it out so that it ran a big spoiler in front; it had mud flaps with Yosemite Sam shooting at whoever followed behind and a claxon horn that played “La Cucaracha” whenever Hawny felt the need to hear it. The only thing it lacked, in fact, was a radio or sound system, because Hawny’s dad said a bunch of music blaring would only distract Hawny and cause his death. Zeb wasn’t sure Hawny’s dad wasn’t right about that. Hawny drove down Woodland, then crossed over to Holton Street. “I still can’t believe you played,” Hawny said. “You played, man! You looked good, you know? I mean, you looked like you were a player and you were playing . . .” “I forgot to call the snap count on the very first play.” “So?” Hawny asked, turning. “So what? So you made a mistake. So what? People make mistakes, but you came in and did what you needed to do. We won, right? Next week is your week, kiddo.” “I’m a backup, Hawny. Let’s not get crazy.” “You’re a backup who’s playing in a state championship game. Get that into your head. And the whole damn town is going to be bowing to you. You know how crazy this gets. They already have signs up all over! Are you nuts? You just hit the lottery, man!” Zeb shook his head, trying to get his mind around it. Hawny had a point and the whole thing seemed dreamlike. Zeb felt an inner pleasure that he didn’t quite recognize. Things seldom went his way. It almost brought a smile to his lips, almost, and to obscure it he punched Hawny softly on the arm. “What if you got in too?” he asked Hawny, taking cover in a question as he sometimes did. “What if you got in, and we lit it up? I’d throw it to you no matter what. You could have ten guys on you and I would just bomb it out there and see what happens.” “No way I’m getting in,” Hawny said. “I’m going to finish my career at good old Rumney High without playing a single down.” “They should put you in for a kickoff or something. It sucks that they don’t.” “Maybe they would, but not for the state championship. Don’t go dreaming on me. I kind of don’t even want to go in anymore. It’s like a point of pride with me now.” “It’s not right they don’t put you in sometime. I mean, you practice as much as anyone. You’re like the king of the nut squad.” Hawny shrugged. Zeb couldn’t help feeling he should share some of what he had just won with Hawny, though he didn’t know how that was possible. “How about T.T.? That leg is wankered,” Hawny said, drawing up behind a car near the light on Ellwood Ave. “I couldn’t even look at it. It’s bent all to hell. Got to put him out on the icebergs for the polar bears, man. He’s done for.” “I should go over and see him in the hospital.” “Good luck with that. What are you doing tomorrow?” “I’ve got to work in the morning. Then Uncle Pushee talked about going out for deer.” “Up to Dummer?” “I think so.” “He already got one, right?” “Muzzleloader. He works it so he can get three. He wants to make sure I use my tag, otherwise he’ll jack one.” “Uncle Pushee is hard core, man.” Uncle Pushee was hard core, Zeb agreed. But his mind didn’t want to focus on deer or Uncle Pushee. “I keep thinking of T.T.,” he said. “I mean, he’s got everything going for him. Great athlete, college scouts, you name it. He dates one of the prettiest girl in school—” “You think Stella is hot? I mean, really hot? I never thought she was all that,” Hawny said, moving when the light turned and swinging onto Cowherd Lane. “She knows that she’s good-looking and acts stuck up.” Hawny was right about Stella. She was aware of her looks. Whenever Zeb hung around her, he noticed she always found a way to see herself in the mirror or any reflecting surface at all. Sometimes being near her felt like sharing a scene in a movie she starred in and directed herself. Zeb could never tell if he felt attracted to her or sorry for her. He imagined it was something in between. “She’s a little needy,” Zeb said, defending her. “She just wants attention.” “Listen to you!” Hawny said. “You going all psychobabble on me. You got a thing for Stella? You going to take T.T.’s position and his girlfriend in the same week? That’s just not right!” “No, I just mean, Stella is okay. Sometimes we talk. Don’t get all weird on me. Don’t make it into something it’s not.” “Oh, she has depth, eh? Is that what you’re saying? She’s a star-fucker, Zeb. She’s with T.T. only because he’s the big dog on campus. But you got all kinds of surprises lined up, don’t you? T.T. would kick your ass, you know, if you mess with Stella? He’d take his cast off or whatever he has on his leg and beat you silly. Those two are like male and female versions of the same person.” Hawny was right about that too. T.T. had already asked a time or two about the conversations Zeb had occasionally with Stella. Zeb couldn’t tell if T.T. was jealous or merely annoyed with Stella for needing so much attention. Either way, it wasn’t a line Zeb had any interest in crossing. “Coach K has some serious bad breath,” Zeb said to change the subject. “Does he? I never got close enough to know.” “It’s epically bad.” “Gross. You working tonight?” Hawny asked, banking a turn onto Brick Street. “Nope. Not tonight.” “That’s good. The star quarterback ought to be kicking back!” “I’m hardly a star quarterback.” “You never know. You might make it rain out there. You got to get into this thing, Zeb. Great opportunities come to those who make the most of small ones. Isn’t that what Coach K always says? You’re like Tommy Brady! Drew Bledsoe just got hurt and you’re coming into the game!” “Maybe. Or maybe I’m about to make a fool of myself.” “Nah. You’re solid, man. You suddenly became the most famous guy in Rumney Township. You got to get your head around this. This is freaking enormous, dude.” Zeb smiled. Hawny always had a different take on things. That was one of the features of Hawny’s personality that Zeb admired. He was goofy, but good goofy. And in some part of himself, Zeb understood this opportunity was big. A lot of people would be watching, for better or worse. “Stella, eh?” Hawny said when he finally pulled into Zeb’s driveway. “She is bait. And she is wicked tight.” “And she’s T.T.’s girlfriend.” “Dangerous territory, man. You better be careful.” Zeb climbed out. Cold air moved over him and he felt it suck down into his body. He kept the door open while he reached in the back of Hawny’s pickup for his bag of clothes. It felt good and warm in Hawny’s truck and he almost hated to leave it. Behind him, Uncle Pushee’s house was dark. “Thanks, man,” Zeb said to Hawny. “I’m hanging with the starting quarterback of the Rumney Raiders. I’ll drive you anywhere you want this week. The week after that, you’re back to being old Zebulon Holloway, half-ass grease monkey. You’ll be yesterday’s news.” “You want to go over with me to see T.T.?” “Would he come to see me if I were hurt? Not thinking so. He doesn’t know who I am. I’m just a nut-squadder to him. No, thanks. I’m not going to pretend we’re buddies now just because he’s hurt.” “He’s your teammate. That should count for something.” “He doesn’t give a flying deuce about me and you know it.” Zeb shrugged. He couldn’t disagree. He nodded his chin at Hawny and closed the door. He smelled truck exhaust as Hawny backed out. Hawny hit “La Cucaracha” as he pulled away. He always did.
It was cold in the old Sunline camper that Zeb lived in with his mother. His mother, Janey, hadn’t been home all day. She hadn’t been back last night either, so the fire had gone out in the Jøtul and the camper felt cold as well water. Zeb swung his backpack down on the couch and turned on the center overhead light. He stood for a second glancing around. It didn’t look great in the camper. He saw that. He understood he was partially to blame for the mess, but some of it, a lot of it, came from his mom. She collected things, mostly ridiculous things, whacky little knickknacks she hauled back from thrift shops and yard sales. She had just found a new store over by the Rumney diner, and for the past week or so she had been splurging her tip money on porcelain dolls and puppy-dog figurines. She loved them. It boxed him up to think about it. He grabbed a copy of the PennySaver from the stack on the counter and broke a couple pine twigs across his knee. Then he opened the Jøtul and laid up the fire, crumpling paper and twigs together in a hash, fitting in a hunk of birch as a firedog. He had to get up and look around for matches. It occurred to him as he lifted from his knee—probably because it was the same motion he used after calling a play and breaking the huddle—that he was the starting quarterback of the Rumney Raiders. For the briefest moment he felt something warm and proud build inside of him. He wasn’t T.T., didn’t possess even half of T.T.’s stunning ability, but he stood for a second and looked out the window and caught his reflection staring back at him. He couldn’t bring himself to smile, exactly, but he felt a deep, heavy satisfaction continue to fill him, and to his surprise his eyes filled with tears. He wished, somehow, that he had someone to tell. He thought of his mother and thought of Uncle Pushee, but they wouldn’t understand the news in the way he needed someone to understand. They would say it was great, good, way to go, but they considered playing sports a waste of time mostly. Uncle Pushee was fond of saying that the Saturday he spent watching a bunch of boys playing a game and taking it for entertainment was the day he was ready to be carried to heaven. Uncle Pushee wasn’t the one to tell about being the quarterback in a state championship game, that was certain. It was a taste Zeb had to have just to himself. As Zeb knelt before the stove again, he realized who he did want to tell: Stella. She would understand. She loved TV shows that let common people show off their talents. It didn’t matter if the people did better or worse than the audience anticipated; she simply liked that they had a chance. She watched all of those shows. Underneath it, Zeb understood Stella waited for her chance somehow. She wanted to get out and get going with her life. She thought her prettiness would carry her someplace, but Zeb wasn’t sure she could depend on it as a ticket. Anyway, that’s who he wanted to tell. He wanted to tell Stella. He struck the match and held the flame to the crumpled paper. He shook his head a little to clear it. Life had some wicked-fast turns, he thought as he touched the match to the paper in three different spots. He tossed the match onto the paper and leaned back to watch the flame climb. It would be an hour, he knew, before the stove chased the cold out of the camper. With one eye on the stove, he fixed himself a bowl of tomato soup, crushed a half dozen saltines on top, and carried it to the rocking chair that his mother kept close to the stove. He sat down and felt a loop of weariness circle him. If he put his head back, and if the stove continued to throw heat, he would be asleep before he finished his supper. He forced himself to sit forward and ate the soup. After a while he dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He checked his messages, then went to the Rumney Raiders Facebook page. The page had more than seventeen thousand followers, and the buzz had already begun about T.T.’s injury. A few people asked how serious it was, and others—some names he recognized—came right back and said T.T. was done for the season. He read through maybe thirty threads before he saw a mention of his own name. In answer to Who was the backup, someone had typed, Zeb Holloway, three-year bench rider. He’s no T.T., someone else wrote. No one is T.T. Not in the entire country. Coach K will get Holloway ready. Coach K can stand on his head, Holloway ain’t no T.T. Then someone asked about Merrymeeting, their opponent in the state championship game, and the thread went down that rabbit hole for more responses than Zeb could count. He clicked his phone off when he heard his mother open the door. “Heyyyyy,” she called. That’s how she always called. Her voice sounded like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to say hello or goodbye. He listened to her drop her things. Her keys went first, then her coat. She kicked off her shoes last. They hit against the walls and he heard her slide her feet into her slippers. “How was it?” she asked, simultaneously holding up a pair of porcelain Franciscan monks for him to examine. She wiggled them to make them dance. Then she put them on the window ledge beside a black sheep and a tawny river otter. She still wore her brown waitress uniform. Her restaurant was called the Captain’s Table. “Okay,” he said. “It went okay.” “Did you win?” she asked, pulling back from the window ledge. “I tried to find the score on the radio, but I couldn’t get it to come in. I wish they would get a decent radio station for the games. These mountains cut off every station around here.” “We won.” She stepped back and examined the row of porcelain figures. “Salt- and peppershakers,” she said. “The monks, I mean. They can be valuable. I got them for a steal.” He nodded. He understood she needed to feel she’d won sometimes, that she’d tricked someone, gotten a deal to answer all the beat-downs she took in her life, but it was the wrong game and the wrong thing to match herself against. Still, it wasn’t anything you could say to her. He watched as she reached forward and arranged the spacing between the two monks to match the spacing around the other figurines. When she was satisfied, she stepped away and moved in front of the stove. “God, it’s cold in here,” she said. “Did you just get back?” He nodded. She pointed her chin at his bowl. “Good, I’m glad you’re having soup. It’s a soup kind of day, isn’t it? I may have a bowl myself.” “How did you do?” “A hundred seventeen.” “Not bad.” “They don’t tip in that restaurant. They just don’t. I talked to Kelly the other day about her restaurant . . . the Greenhouse? She makes a hundred bucks at brunch on Sunday! She makes twice that in, like, two hours during dinner.” “Hey, could I borrow the car tonight?” he asked, knowing a quick change of topic often worked on her. Given too much time, she found a world of objections to almost anything he proposed. “For how long?” “Just an hour or so.” “Well, I guess. I might have an invitation to go out tonight.” “Wouldn’t whoever it is drive you, then?” “You know who it is, Zeb. It’s Arthur.” “Can’t Arthur give you a ride?” She shrugged. Her social life always had complications, he knew. Crackups and make-backs and who knew what all. Mostly it revolved around going to the Fish Bowl for margaritas, but how she got there, and where she went afterward, he didn’t usually let himself consider. Arthur was fairly steady except when he wasn’t. He had thin hair and a muscled build that had gone a little to fat. He resembled a cake that someone had overfrosted, but he was usually pretty okay about his mother. Zeb got along with Arthur all right. A spark from the stove snapped and shot up. It made a pretty little arc before it landed in front of his mom. She stepped on it and put it out. The cinder created a black smudge on the floor. When she was sure she had extinguished the spark, she turned around and shut the stove door. “Warmer now,” she said. “Is Uncle Pushee home? Is his truck over there?” “I don’t think so. What do you need him for?” “I’m supposed to work for him tomorrow.” “Thought you were going deer hunting.” “Work first, I think.” “Well, if you’re working tomorrow, make sure you put some gas in the car, you hear? You don’t get to keep all your money while I spend mine on groceries.” “I will.” He thought then about telling her his news. He thought about explaining that something big had happened, but he couldn’t get his tongue to carve out the sort of air he needed to carry it to her ears. She would try to be enthusiastic, he knew, and that would only make it worse. The rest of the week he would be forced to endure a bunch of questions and comments, little mom-interrogations, and he didn’t think he could stand that. In his experience, it seldom paid to volunteer information. It was better to let the world drift to you. “I’m going to fix a drink,” she said, moving away from the stove toward the kitchen counter. “You go ahead if you want, take the car, but not far, right? We depend on that car, Zeb.” “I know, Mom.” “Please be careful. There’s no fat on the bone, Zeb.” She combed his hair back with her hand. She tapped her finger lightly on the center of his forehead for emphasis. No fat on the bone; he got it. They never had fat on the bone, so he wasn’t certain why she needed to point it out. She squatted and kissed his hairline quickly, and pretty soon afterward the ice trays cracked.
Holloway has a decent arm. He’s a second-string QB. You be dreaming, dude. What time does the game start? They haven’t posted it. Probably a.m. T.T. is better on one leg than Holloway on two. Maybe T.T. can play on crutches.
Plymouth Regional Hospital was a beige, unassuming building. When Zeb parked his mom’s Honda Civic at the back edge of the lot, he shook his head, thinking of T.T. being here in a drab little hospital room. T.T. hated smalltime, hated New Hampshire for its ruralness, and it was a cruel irony that he ended up here tonight instead of being out enjoying a fancy dinner somewhere courtesy of one of the visiting college recruiters. T.T. would not be happy. Zeb cupped his hand over his mouth and blew into it, checking his breath. He pulled the collar of his flannel shirt tighter against his neck, then tucked his hands into the front pouch of his Raiders sweatshirt. He wondered as he pushed through the visitors’ door if he was overstepping by visiting T.T. They weren’t great friends, but they had been fellow quarterbacks for three years. They had performed all their drills together, studied film side by side, checked each other’s arms out at the end of each summer to see what the other had become. Zeb felt fairly solid that his motive for visiting centered somewhere on those considerations; they were friends, and he hoped T.T. would see it that way. Zeb would not allow his mind to go to Stella. That wasn’t why he wanted to pay a visit. He could say that honestly. “Hey, ’s’up?” T.T. said when Zeb finally found the right room after wandering the hallways for a couple minutes. Half a dozen people crowded around the bed. T.T. sat against a pillow, his leg hoisted up as if he needed to follow through from kicking a field goal. The cast, Zeb observed, looked enormous. It was not a minor-injury cast, he didn’t think. No question about that. Zeb stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. The people around T.T.’s bed fanned out a little, as if T.T. rested in the dead center of the flaring neck of a cobra. Zeb smiled and tried to shrink back, but he was committed. He didn’t see any of their teammates. “How are you feeling?” Zeb asked, standing awkwardly at the foot of T.T.’s bed. “You in much pain?” “He’s all right, everything considered,” a large woman said. “We pray to the Lord to restore His gifts to T.T.” It was T.T.’s mom. She was a keg-ish, thick woman, wearing a blue dress that had a shimmer under the hospital lighting. Something about the way people had gathered around T.T. made Zeb wonder if he had interrupted a prayer. A Bible rested on the bed next to T.T.’s injured leg. The Bible looked like a tiny trapdoor leading down into the covers. “Yes, ma’am,” Zeb said, collecting himself. “We all hope that.” “It’s hard, man,” T.T. said. “My leg is shot. I still can’t believe it. I wasn’t even hit.” “Sorry, T.T. It’s a lousy break.” “Put your faith in the Lord, T.T.,” his mom said. “All things are the property of the Lord. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. It’s not our right to ask why. We rest our lives in His palm, in health and in sickness.” T.T. nodded. Zeb met T.T.’s eyes. T.T. didn’t seem confident that all things flowed from the Lord or whatever his mother had just said. Zeb saw that much. “So this is your backup,” T.T.’s dad said from the other side of the bed. “I just put it together. I had trouble placing this boy . . . Zeb, right? You’re a Holloway, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, good on you for stopping in to see your friend. You’re the first teammate that’s come by. The coaches came right after the game. Coach K and everyone. The whole crew.” “I only wish he could play on Saturday,” Zeb said, because something like that—some sort of phrase of consolation—was expected of him. “For states, I mean.” “His season’s over, that’s for sure,” the man said. “But there will be other seasons, won’t there, T.T.?” “Yes, sir.” Zeb felt the neck of the cobra begin to constrict. The people on either side of the bed began shutting the circle. T.T. started to fade. His eyes closed and he looked, suddenly, more like a child than a young man. T.T.’s mom put her fingers to her lips and came and took Zeb’s arm. She walked him out. “Bless you for stopping in,” she said. “He’s tired. He’s a tired, tired boy right now. It’s been an emotional day for him. And the pain.” Zeb nodded. “Have you been saved, young man?” “Not so you would know it.” The woman surprised him by laughing. It wasn’t a phony, polite laugh. It came from deep down. “You’re an honest boy. I asked because we can use your prayers. We had so much hope for T.T. and now this . . .” Zeb nodded. He didn’t know if he could pray for T.T., or for anyone, really, but he understood the desire to pray. “I’ll try,” Zeb said, starting down the hallway. “Nice meeting you.” “Nice of you to stop in. Not everyone did.” “I think it’s early. They’ll come by, I’m pretty sure.” The woman nodded and turned and went back inside. Zeb walked down a wide set of stairs, not sure if he had told the woman the truth. People had mixed feelings about T.T. The fact was, T.T. was a black kid in a nearly all-white school—in a nearly all-white state—and he couldn’t help being the center of attention. People watched him. Anytime the question of race came up in a class—reading Huckleberry Finn, for instance, or discussing Black Lives Matter in social studies—everyone turned to T.T. Even the teachers. By being black, T.T. had to be the spokesman for anything race-related, which was nutty and unfair, Zeb knew, but there it was. Added to that was T.T.’s talent. He was a genuinely superb athlete, a QB listed in Scholastic News as one of the top five recruits for colleges in America. The rumor was he had already committed to USC on a full ride. Sometimes he could come across as arrogant or conceited, but Zeb could hardly blame him. He really was that good, but some guys on the team found him too cocky for their liking. They had to respect him, for sure, but plenty of guys wouldn’t be entirely disappointed to see T.T. get taken down a peg or two. Zeb was glad to step outside and breathe fresh air. He stood for a moment in the bright light of the visitors’ entrance and felt again the pleasure of being the quarterback for the New Hampshire state championship game. But the pleasure came on a wash of guilt, because here he was, not a hundred yards away from T.T.’s hospital bed, smiling over being a starting quarterback at last. He still stood under the visitors’ entrance when Stella’s car drove past. He thought maybe he should leave, but he couldn’t make himself go. It took her a while to climb out of the car. When she did, she had a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee in her hand. “Hi, Zeb,” Stella said. “Have you been up already?” “I just came down.” “How’s he doing?” “He’s sleepy. I guess they have him pretty sedated.” “I can’t believe this is happening. Right before his last game.” “I know. It’s a shame.” Stella took a sip of her iced coffee. Zeb noticed the straw’s top was red from her lipstick. “How are you feeling about it all? You’re suddenly the quarterback for the state championship game. That’s got to get your butterflies going.” “I don’t think I’ve quite got my head around it yet.” “All those people counting on you? It would make me jumpy, I can tell you that. Some of the cheerleaders asked me about you. You’re suddenly on their radar. Bethy and Maddie think you’re cute.” “It’s just a game. And nobody thinks I’m cute, Stella. That’s just you pretending.” “You think so? You’ll see,” she said, taking the straw again. The ice cubes in the coffee swirled like ghosts. “You’re the quarterback for a state championship game. Do you even get how big that is?” “I guess. I don’t know. It’s hard to take in.” Stella smiled. He realized, maybe for the first time, how sharply people would watch him this next week. Truly watch him. It didn’t make him nervous, exactly, just on edge and ready. He couldn’t let himself think about it too much. He knew Coach K would keep the game plan simple. That’s what the fans wouldn’t know. The Raiders wouldn’t be pulling anything fancy. Mostly Zeb had to game-manage and try to sneak the Raiders ahead for a touchdown and then let the defense hold them. If the game had been on his shoulders, really on his shoulders, he would have felt much more concerned. He had to keep himself steady inside his excitement. “Well, I should get up there,” Stella said. “If it gets too crazy this week, let me know. We can talk or whatever.” “Thanks. I appreciate that.” “You’ll do great. T.T. always said you could throw better than he did, and coming from T.T., that’s saying a lot. He would never admit something like that if it weren’t true. He hates to admit anyone is better at anything than he is.” “Well, I don’t know about that.” “You think he’s lying? Or that I’m lying?” Stella asked with a twinkle. “I meant about me being a better thrower,” Zeb said. “You’re too humble, Zeb. This isn’t your week to be humble.” Then Stella put her hand on his forearm. She meant it, he imagined, to encourage him, to say that this was his week, except it sent such a tingle through him that he almost couldn’t stand it. He curled his arm quickly and touched her sleeve and she turned away and then turned back and looked at him.
After the hospital, he drove to Meater Lake. It was a place to go, nothing special, but he parked and climbed out of the car. He checked his phone, but the reception wasn’t good. The cold air pushed at him. He sat on the front fender of the car and looked up at the moon. It was a fairly new moon and it hung on the line of trees that covered the backside of the shore. Bill Carney, a logger in town, swore that he had seen a yeti once at Meater Lake, a big, hairy beast who chased him out of the parking lot. Zeb doubted he’d see a yeti tonight. Bill Carney had died during the summer. Zeb had read his obituary online, but it had made no mention of the yeti sighting. He took deep breaths, filling his lungs purposefully. Quarterback of the Rumney Raiders, playing in the state championship game. He tried to breathe that in with the air. In all the disappointment about T.T., Zeb wondered if he himself hadn’t been given a slice of opportunity. He would never have wished an injury on T.T., but now that it was here, he had to follow through. It was going to be a damn short season. A one-game season. Two cars pulled in, their lights sweeping out to the lake. Zeb climbed back inside the Civic. The car started rough, but he got it going. On the way out of the parking lot, he saw the hindquarters of a moose. It had just entered the woods, probably going to the lake. Only its butt remained visible, then it, too, disappeared into the puckerbrush. He pulled into Uncle Pushee’s driveway and then veered off for the camper where he and his mom lived. He turned off the engine and climbed out. The camper looked like the baby of the larger house beside it. A baby house. He took another breath. Then for the hell of it, he jumped up and grabbed the limb of an oak that partially separated the house from the camper. It was a big oak, one he had climbed as a kid, but now he simply hung from the branch, letting his shoulder muscles loosen, his back and legs stretching in good ways. He swung back and forth, remembering what it was like to climb up, to cling to the branch as you walked your feet up the trunk and curled one knee over the branch. Starting quarterback, he told himself. He swung his legs up and bucked off, landing on his feet in a comfortable, solid way. He knocked the dirt from the branch off his hands and then pushed into the camper, hours closer to the game.
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