False Start - Jessica Ruddick Page 0,23

members of the coaching staff. “Gentlemen.” He didn’t have to yell to get our attention. That was one thing he and Gurgin had in common—their commanding presence. “I’m not big on pregame speeches,” he drawled in his Texas accent. “Y’all know what you can do. I’ve seen what you can do. Now it’s time to show the world who you are, who we are. So who are you?”

“VVU!”

“Who are you?”

“VVU!”

“As long as you remember that on the field, y’all be just fine. It’s business as usual, gentlemen.” He nodded to the coaching staff, who started to filter out of the locker room. “Five minutes.”

His pep talk was underwhelming, but I kind of liked it. He didn’t bullshit or try to rile us up. We shouldn’t need that. Like he said, it was business as usual. For us, that meant kicking ass and taking names. I grinned. This season was going to be epic.

Beside me, Jake’s brow was creased and covered in sweat.

“Hey, man, you okay?” I asked. Jake had better pull his shit together. He was the best receiver we had.

He swallowed. “A lot is riding on this game, you know?” After his parents died last season, Jake had lost his starting position. Though he’d gained it back this season, his confidence had taken a hit. Besides that, it was his last chance to make an impression on pro scouts. Like me, he was hoping to get drafted.

“Yeah, but you got this. Just play. That’s all you got to do.” My words intentionally echoed Coach Coyle’s.

Jake wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and grabbed his helmet. “I’m already sweating balls, and we’re not even on the field yet.”

“It’s supposed to be in the nineties.”

“Fuck.”

Wyatt passed us, looking cool as a fucking cucumber. “Ready to kick some ass?”

I’d never seen him look nervous. But this had to be bittersweet—it was his first game without FM4. Good thing Jake and I were ready to pick up the slack. Jake better be ready. He had me worried, but I wouldn’t let him know that.

I grinned. “Always.”

Jake managed a nod, looking like he wanted to puke.

Wyatt eyed him. “Truitt, relax.”

Exhaling, he rolled his neck. “Totally relaxed.”

Jake was anything but relaxed. As we walked through the tunnel on the way to the field, the cheers of the fans echoed off the walls. A guard at the entrance handed Wyatt and me the state and American flags, which we were going to carry onto the field. Then came the sound I’d been waiting for since last season—the opening notes of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” could barely be heard over the crowd. Fuck yeah. That might’ve seemed like an odd entrance song to some, but the school had been using it forever, and there was nothing like rushing out onto the field and feeling the music in my chest.

Right before we ran out of the tunnel, I caught Jake’s eye. His mouth stretched into a smile as he hung his head back and closed his eyes. “Yessssss.”

I held out my fist, and he bumped it. Then I tore onto the field, flag waving.

***

AFTER THE POSTGAME activities, I was pleased to see I had a text from Zizzo.

Zizzo: Meet at your place?

That surprised me. We didn’t normally hang out after games, but any time was a good time to see Ziz. I checked the time of the text. She’d sent it an hour ago. Hopefully she hadn’t given up on me and made other plans.

Carson: On my way.

Ziz had a key to my place out of necessity. There wasn’t a good place to hide a key outside, and I’d wanted someone reliable to have one in case my drunk ass got locked out. Sober me had learned early on to plan for contingencies for drunk me, who could be a complete moron. A smarter person might try to change his habits but not me—I just planned for the inevitable idiocy.

“Ziz!” I called when I walked in the front door. “I’m starving. You want to eat?” I stopped in my tracks when I saw Roman rummaging through my pantry. Fuck yeah! He’d asked me to get him tickets for this game a few weeks ago, which I had. But when he hadn’t said anything about it, I’d figured he couldn’t make it. I’d told him to give the tickets away if he couldn’t use them.

It had been nearly four years, and I still wasn’t used to Ziz’s—shit—Roman’s military haircut. Good thing Becca couldn’t read my mind, or